It’s unofficially official that he will be my master. Because of this, Francesca has allowed him to visit me once a week for the past month.
Tonight will be the fourth night that we spend together. Afterwards, I’ll curl up into a ball while Rio cleans me up. Xavier gets off on drawing blood, and now that I’m essentially spoken for, he’s allowed to mark me. Within reason, Francesca says, but honestly—what’s reasonable about any of this?
I hold the lipstick up and wonder if it’s the color of my blood that excites Xavier or the feel of his knife breaking past that weak barrier of skin.
I drop my hand and meet my caramel eyes in the mirror.
When’s the last time I genuinely smiled? The last night I was with Zade, I think. How long ago was that? I believe it's January now, and the last time I saw him was not too long after Satan’s Affair. I’ve missed my first holidays with him. Thanksgiving and Christmas, and maybe his birthday, although I don’t even know when that is. My New Year’s kiss was Xavier’s dick down my throat, and if I didn’t have a desire to kill myself before, I did then.
What had Zade said to make me grin? He had said something ridiculous, but I can’t recall what it was anymore. I do remember him laughing when I struggled for a response. And I remember my traitorous lips tipping up, as much as I tried not to.
I wish I never suppressed my smiles with him. Because now I don’t know if I’m capable of one anymore.
The muscles in my face twitch as I force the corners of my mouth up, stretching it wide and baring all of my teeth. Despite how hard I try, it doesn’t reach my dead eyes. It’s unnatural. Awkward.
Terrifying.
I smooth out my face, contemplating how I can smile again.
“Duh, Addie,” I whisper. “You know how to do it.”
I lift the lipstick and place it on the corner of my lip and draw it out across my cheek, curving it up towards my eyes. Then the other side, until a big red smile is painted across my face.
The Joker had the right idea, I decide.
Feeling slightly better, I cap the tube and let it roll across the floor. Heavy footsteps travel down the hallway and toward my room.
My heart speeds up, and I wonder if Francesca will let me keep my smile. Just for a night.
But the second she walks up behind me and spots what I did, her eyes widen. Her hand flies out and smacks into the side of my head, sending me toppling over.
“What is wrong with you?” she hisses.
I brush the strands of my hair out of my face, looking up at her outraged expression.
“I’m sorry, Francesca,” I say quietly. “I just wanted to smile.”
She huffs. “You need to keep it together. I don’t need another fucking Sydney on my hands. You are mere weeks away from being sold off, diamond. Don’t you dare ruin this for me.”
I frown and nod my head, apologizing again. It looks funny with my face painted the opposite.
“Wipe that shit off and get ready. Xavier will be here in ten minutes.”
Sad. No smiles for me tonight.
A deep shuddering breath fans across my face, his excitement growing as the sharp bite of metal digs into my stomach. He hasn’t broken skin yet, though my pain receptors are screaming at me like he has.
“I want to see you covered in red, diamond,” Xavier whispers from above me, his hard length poised at my entrance.
I am covered in red. He’s made so many cuts around my body that I’ve turned the white bedsheets scarlet.
It’s never enough for him.
A whimper falls past my lips when I feel him push inside of me, and my gag reflex threatens to spew bile all over him. There’s nothing in my stomach. Francesca doesn’t allow me to eat much on the days he visits—she says that she doesn’t want me to get bloated.
“You like feeling me don’t you, baby?”
I screw my eyes shut and nod, though it’s the furthest from the truth.
He invades my body like a parasite would, an unwelcome tenant that leeches from my life force to feed his own.
The sharp point of his knife finally breaks skin, and his blade glides across my stomach, drawing out a sharp yelp. Blood bubbles from the wound, and he moves his hips faster in response.
“Fuck, that’s so pretty,” he groans breathlessly.
A tear slips past my eye, and I pray he’s too distracted to notice. He only cuts me deeper when I cry.
He wants me to writhe beneath the piercing metal and get off on the pain as he does. He wants me to enjoy this, and when he sees that I’m not, it makes him angry. He says I just need to get used to it—I just need to adjust. But I don’t know how anyone could get used to being sliced open like a fucking pig.