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She can keep her dirty, sleazy, asshole rapist of a spouse, but somehow, I glean that telling her as much won’t get me in her good graces. Nothing will.
Rather than wasting my breath, I stay silent.
My servant already proves to be a useful ally. “We’ve been told to prepare her in a hurry, my lady.”
The woman’s golden eyes flash almost red as they take in the help with obvious disdain.
“Well, what are you waiting for, wench? If you’re the reason we’re late to the conclave, you’ll beg for mercy before I’m done whipping your back.”
She’d do it. She’d whip that girl, and me, and enjoy it. I see it in her pinched, disagreeable face.
We both rush back into my bathroom. All notion of protesting or dragging my feet is out of the question. Reluctance isn’t going to get me anywhere except hurt some more and something tells me the servants are as bound as me. I’d only get them punished too, and likely make more enemies for my trouble.
I let them wash me with rough sponges in the icy cool water of the tub, and then wrap me into that poor excuse for clothing that they brought along with them. It’s good they’re here to place the material where it should go—I certainly wouldn't have been able to guess by myself.
“Can I have underwear?” I ask when they’re done, without much hope.
One of the women tries to smile, and shakes her pretty bald head.
I thought as much.
* * *
As Junis wished, the getup I'm wrapped into is certainly not cheap.
I don't know much about luxurious materials, but the stones, the gold, and the pink silk feel quite real to me.
It's also not a dress. At best, I’d call it a covering, like the type of garment fancy women wear over their bikini on yacht. Only I don’t have any form of swimwear underneath. Not so much as a pair of panties. The attire's heavy and there's plenty of fabric, but it covers me far less than my tube dress did.
There are two long, soft pink strands of sheer fabric running from my shoulders down to my feet, glued into place to cover my nipples, but not much else of my bust. At the waist, they're gathered by a thick belt, richly adorned with precious trinkets—sapphires, pearls, silver or white gold, all shaped like snowflakes and pinecones. The fabric lightens, from sheer to downright transparent mid-thigh, and parts at the apex of my exposed thighs.
The back is worse. There's nothing but a single silvery chain attaching the strands behind my neck. Entirely bare until the belt low on my waist, I'm only covered by a few inches of shredded threads attached to the front, that do nothing to cover my ass.
I look like I dressed to be fucked, exactly as intended.
Numb helplessness shrouds my rage, and I swear to myself again that someday, somehow, I'm going to fucking murder him. I'll shove something sharp inside him and twist it to make it hurt.
Even in my youth, when I was the bite first, ask questions later kind of person, I've never had that impulse before, and its strength overwhelms me. But I truly would murder him and sleep just fine the next day. Sleep better than when he was alive. I’d truly relish his death. No matter what they’d done to her, my sister would never want someone dead, let alone consider killing them with her bare hands.
There’s something wrong with me, isn’t there? Not quite normal. I might have masked it after years of practice, and constant reinforcement from my parents, but I am a much simpler beast than humans are supposed to be.
I have friends, people I’m indifferent to, and people I dislike. And I wouldn’t think twice about hurting those who’ve done me harm to end up behind the third curtain. It’s always been like that for me. Now, I get to add a fourth category. Enemies. And there’s nothing I wouldn’t do against the only man on that list so far.
My captor reappears when his servants finish attaching the threads on my ass to the belt.
"You’ll do." He grins and comes to my side. "Bring me honor at the conclave, and I will reward you."
I have no clue what this conclave he speaks of is, and I don’t give half a flying fuck. I spit on his face, glad no command prevents me from doing so. I know it’s unwise, but I can’t help myself.
To my surprise the corner of his lips hikes farther up. I expected anger, but he's delighted.
I still flinch when his hand reaches out to my face, but he only brings his finger to my lips, running his thumb over my mouth.
"I'll punish you later, pretty worm. It wouldn't do to ruin your gown and make us late for the conclave." He turns his attention to the servant. "Be sure to pack restraints and a cane or two. My thrall wishes to play, and we shall once we're settled in the Hollow."
I hide the panic that twists my insides. I could ask what good restraints will be when he could order me to do anything he'd like, but I don't have to. I've already guessed it: this monster wants me to fight. He wants me to bite and kick and spit, so he can punish me for it. So he can somehow feel justified in what he’s doing to me.
I should do my best to hold myself back, to avoid earning those punishments, but I can't imagine submitting to someone like him. I'd rather die.
