Page 39 of God of Monsters

Agatha disappears behind me, sending my nerves flaring. Will she stab me in the back? My muscles twitch, when she places a freshly dipped washcloth to my shoulder.

“The items hanging from the wall in the other room. What are they?”

The answering snort echoes behind me, as she runs the cloth over my arm. “That’s right. You’re a virgin. Ignorant to the pleasures in pain.”

“There is no pleasure in pain.”

“I think you’ll be surprised.”

I don’t dare to ask the obvious question, of whether, or not, they plan to hurt me, since the answer will only weaken me with fear. The objective in this is to stay focused. One step ahead of them. “He hurts you?”

“He administers pain when necessary.” Fingernails curl against my scalp as she works the lathered soap into my hair, before she dumps a cup of warm water over it.

“When is pain considered necessary?”

“You ask a lot of questions, Dove. I think it’s best if you focus on yourself right now. Your hymen … do you know if it’s intact, or not?”

The obsession with that small bit of flesh is unnerving, but I’m grateful she’s not under some false impression, like everyone else who seems to associate hymens with virginity. This may be my opportunity to explain away the lack of bleeding, if Remus does get his hands on me and finds I’m not as pure as he thought.

“No. It was broken by manual exam. In preparation for my deflowering.”

“Deflowering. How very … holy.” Still running her fingers through my hair, she snorts. “This priest. Was he young, at least?”

“No.”

“And they call us savages.”

“Why me? Why doesn’t Remus get you pregnant? From what I’ve seen, he seems to care about you.”

“If that were an option, believe me, you wouldn’t be here. You’d have been sacrificed to one of the monsters, and we’d be basking in the earth’s bounty because of it. Thanks to Titus, you’ve been spared, and Remus may get his beloved child.”

“It doesn’t take a virgin to bear a child.”

“No. But Remus seems to think you’re part of some divine prophecy bestowed on him to produce the purest race of humankind.”

Like Hitler 2.0. For Christ’s sake, it seems what’s left of the world is fast becoming a playground for zealots and psychopaths.

Once she’s finished washing me, she nudges my arm, and I stand in the tub. Cold air wraps around my skin, springing goosebumps, and I cross my arms over my breasts to hide the hardened peaks there. She takes hold of my arms, prying them away, and smiles down at my breasts.

“Remus prefers them smaller, but I suspect he’ll make an exception.” Soft fingertips circle my nipple, and I suck in a tight breath, looking away as she fondles me. Her touch trails down my belly to between my thighs, where she toys with the small patch of curls there. “You have a pretty cunt. For now. Once Remus is finished with you, it’ll be a battered mess.”

An acidic lump of bile climbs my throat, and I swallow it back, along with the grotesque visuals stirred by her words. The feel of her hands on me is wrong, and when she shoves two fingers up inside of me, my arms fly out to push her away, my lungs filling with a gasp.

She quickly removes her fingers, tapping her thumb and forefinger together.

Checking to see if I’ve ovulated, no doubt. My grandmother often did the same with her patients, just without the unnecessary fondling.

“When did you last bleed?”

“Two days ago,” I lie. In truth, I should’ve started a little over a week ago, and I blame the fact that I’ve yet to on stress.

“Don’t bother to get dressed.” Agatha swipes up a brush from the sink and runs it through my ratted curls, tugging at my scalp with each stroke. Once finished, she tosses the brush back to the sink, where it lands with a clatter, and shuffles toward the door.

Eyes searching for something to cover myself, I snatch my discarded dress from the floor and quickly wrap it around me, just in time before the door swings open to Remus standing there with an expectant smile. His gaze darts to mine, then toward the dress half hanging from my soaked body. Behind him, an armed guard blocks any chance I might’ve had for escape.

“Two weeks,” Agatha says, voice tinged with amusement.

His shoulders sag, brows coming together in a frown as he swings his gaze from me to Agatha, who slips past him. “Two weeks? And what am I supposed to do until then? Keep my hands off her?”