I press the curved part of the knife into the tip of his finger, and drag it down the underside, feeling his flesh peel away from his bone like the skin of an apple. He screams, his body thrashing against the tight leather bindings.
“Does it hurt already?” I ask, tilting my head. Once the thin sliver is to his palm, I tear it from his hand, dangling it in front of his face. “Rather ghastly looking, isn’t it?”
Claudius’s body shakes so hard, the wood of the cross trembles.
“One down, nine to go!” I drop my voice. “You know… this is so much fun. Reminds me of when we were kids… when you’d help my brother as he beat me black and blue.”
Rage curdles my stomach and billows through my chest, and I drop the piece of skin, moving even closer to his arm.
“Please, God,” he cries.
Chuckling, I grip his second finger. “I’m your god now. And I don’t hear your pleas.”
CHAPTER 32
Sara B.
My eyes scan the ballroom. Over and over, they flick from one corner to the next, waiting for the stumpy frame of Lord Claudius, but he’s nowhere to be found. It doesn’t ease my anxiety or calm the embers of anger glowing in my chest.
Regret is already settling in thick that I didn’t kill him when I had the chance; fear whispering that maybe he’s found someone else to prey on, someone who isn’t hiding daggers on their thigh.
Michael sits next to me as we stare out at the dance floor, his mother and my uncle both having retired for the night. The shiny tile reflects people’s smiling faces as they drink and dance the night away, and I can’t help but feel like I’m watching a show. Hundreds of people who live in an alternate reality, so different from what I know to be the truth.
But isn’t that the case with almost everything? We spin tales and weave stories, creating a narrative that dictates how we’re perceived. Or in some cases, how others live.
“Are you having a good time?” Michael asks, engaging me in conversation for the first time all night.
I grin. “It’s lovely.”
He stands, reaching out a hand. “Shall we dance?”
My brows rise, nausea teasing my esophagus, but I place my palm in his and let him lead me to the dance floor, hoping that nobody can see the slight tearing near the hem of my dress.
The ballroom clears, people moving to the outskirts to make room for us, and I feel sick.
I feel sick when his arm wraps around my waist, pulling me in close.
I feel sick when his hand grips mine.
And I feel sick when he smiles.
“You are quite the prize, Lady Beatreaux.”
Bile climbs up my throat.
I’m no one’s prize.
The musicians end the song, immediately starting up another, and I groan at the thought of having to continue this dance. My feet are aching, and my soul is sore.
“Your Majesty.” Xander’s voice breaks through the fog. “May I cut in?”
Michael nods, and it doesn’t escape my notice that I never get a say. No one asks if I’d like to continue. They just pass me around like an object, here for everyone’s viewing pleasure.
Xander steps in close, and I smile as he takes my hand, but he doesn’t return the gesture.
The next song starts, and he jerks me across the room, my feet stumbling as I try to keep up with his steps. I wince when his palm tightens around mine, crushing my fingers together until my knuckles crunch.
“What do you think it is you’re doing?” he hisses.
His tone catches me off guard, and I jerk back. “Excuse me? I have done nothing.”
“Don’t play innocent with me, cousin,” he sneers. “I saw you.”
My heart deep dives to the ground. “I—”
“I won’t have everything we’ve done—everything we’ve worked for—thrown in the trash because you can’t keep your legs closed.”
Shock rips through me, a knot of emotion expanding in my throat until it seems like it will burst. “I have done everything that you’ve asked. And yet you accuse me like this?”
“I saw you,” he repeats. “With Lord Claudius.”
“You saw nothing, clearly.”
“If it had been someone else?” His brows rise to his peppery hairline. “If it had been the king?”
I clench my jaw, shaking my head, because while his accusation is wrong, everything he’s saying still rings true. Michael wouldn’t have cared how it was happening, or whether I had a say. He’d only care how it looks.