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“Because I can’t take her. They have her and I can’t get to her, entiendes? You done playing twenty questions, or should I tell you about how I lost my virginity, too?”
I clamp my mouth shut. He’s given me more than enough. It’s not fair of me to keep pushing.
Rio finishes up, placing fresh gauze over my stitches.
"These are about ready to come out," he says, stepping back to discard the trash and put away the kit. Then, he bends and grabs the corset, fashioning it back around my waist and quickly tying it up, leaving it considerably looser than Francesca did.
Once he’s finished, I release my dress, fixing it as an awkward silence compresses the air around us.
"Thank you," I say quickly, the words burning my tongue on the way out.
He glances at me. "Don't thank me yet, princesa."
He opens the door and exits the bathroom without another word, leaving me to my own devices. My heart pounds, not liking how fucking ominous that sounded. Then, his excuse to Xavier smacks me over the side of the head.
I need to change her dressings before the event.
What fucking event? Didn't we already have one? Isn't this the afterparty to the event?
Dread replaces the marrow in my bones, and as I walk out of the bathroom and back toward the living room, I realize the Culling was only a preliminary event. A few men linger in the corners of the living room, drinking and laughing, looking every bit unconcerned with life. And the girls are gathered in the center, shoulders high and eyes cast down.
With the exception of Sydney, of course. She wears her defiance on her sleeves. Directly meeting the gazes of all the onlookers and even going as far as to smile at them.
I stand beside Jillian and keep my voice as low as possible as I ask, "What's happening?"
Her eyes flicker to me, and I note how ashen her skin is.
"The worst part of the entire night," she whispers back. Anxiety mingles with the dread, merging in my system until I'm nothing but a ball of frayed nerves. Is this what she was trying to tell me to prepare for in the woods?
Just as I open my mouth to ask more questions, loud screaming reaches my ears. My teeth click and then grind when the sound gradually increases. My heart pounds and my palms slicken. That's Phoebe and Bethany, and whatever is about to happen, it's bad.
Really fucking bad.
I grow nervous and fidgety, confused about what's happening, but still desperate to never find out.
Yet their screeching heads straight for us, almost painful to the ears. Two men are dragging them in by their hair, completely naked and bloodied beyond recognition. Since Ben is dead, the one handling Phoebe has thick black hair and a beard, appearing just as ruthless as his partners. And the one handling Bethany is a skinny, older man with thin lips and glasses.
I barely manage to stifle a gasp, incapable of feeling anything outside of horror and panic. Jillian and Gloria shift uncomfortably, both on the verge of tears. Sydney watches them with cool detachment, even as they're tossed at our feet.
Phoebe and Bethany lay there, nearly lifeless. Vomit climbs further up my throat, glimpsing the mutilation they've suffered. I have to look away, physically unable to stomach it. Limbs and skin are missing. Pieces of their body have been cut and completely removed. Blood steadily pools beneath them, the puddle growing larger until it begins to seep beneath our feet.
"They're all yours, girls!" the black-haired man announces proudly, heaving from the exertion and excitement. Blood paints their clothing, and while everyone’s eyes are alit with excitement, these two, in particular, look like they’re riding a high. Most likely from torturing two young girls.
Their slacks are still undone, shirts unbuttoned, and hair ruffled. Sweat drips from the tip of the black-haired man’s nose, while the other has pit stains marring his white shirt.
I take in all these details with wide eyes, my brain slow to process what's going on.
Francesca walks in a moment later, staring down at the girls with her lip curled. Then she trains her gaze on us, appearing calm and collected. She's seen so much—done so much. Does nothing faze her anymore?
"Thank you, gentlemen, for bringing them in here," Francesca says kindly.
Gloria breaks first, turning and slapping a hand over her mouth. Tears stream from her eyes as she gags beneath her palm. A fire lights in Francesca's eyes, her head whipping towards the mousy girl.
"Don't you dare vomit on my floor, little girl. I will cut your tongue from your mouth," she hisses, her makeup cracking from the tension in her face.
Gloria nods her head, though her face is green and she's still on the precipice of losing it altogether. All I can do is chant to myself over and over not to puke and completely lose my shit.
Francesca approaches, making sure to keep her precious heels out of the blood. She stares at us with an unreadable expression.
