My breaths huff out in hoarse pain as I spit out the gag, finding that it’s a pillow sham they found.
“May as well use this wetness on your skin to our own advantage,” Rubella says.
A brush is run up and down my skin, leaving behind an iridescent sparkle. The same setting spray is applied to the glitter so it won’t shed, and then hands are pulling me to my feet, where I weave slightly.
“Drink this,” Rubella says, pushing a glass into my trembling hand.
Gazing at her wearily, I watch as Thora rolls her eyes and takes a sip from the glass. Her lips are still shiny with my slick, and I swallow convulsively at the reminder that her mouth and tongue were on my most vulnerable parts.
“It’s just water,” she scoffs, giving it back to me. Unable to refuse since I know they’ll force me to drink it otherwise, I takea deep sip. It only helps slightly to settle my nerves, and Thora puts it away.
The three of them walk around me, fixing a curl here and there, and Rubella touches up my lips before spraying my face once more. A knock at the door has her turning, where Deacon stands waiting.
Inhaling sharply, I find that I can’t scent anything anymore. Whatever was in the pill Rubella gave me has also stolen my sense of smell. Gone is the sour scent of pickled eggs and vinegar, and there’s a barren feeling left behind.
Piece by piece, I’m being stripped bare of what makes me…me.
“It’s time,” Deacon says, his deep baritone sliding across my skin. The sound of it has my thighs pressing tightly together, whereas before he never really affected me. “Is she ready?”
Something is very wrong. I don’t know how I’m going to walk, much less dance when I’m so aware of every movement I make due to the unwanted stretch of the plug. I know there will be consequences if I manage to push out the damned thing.
“Yes, we just put the final touches together, Alpha,” Rubella says. Her lips press against me quickly and she whispers, “Don’t fuck this up, girl. Keep that plug inside of you until someone removes it or it’ll go badly for you.”
Her gaze remains on the ground as she pushes me forward. Her daughters also are subservient and quiet as Deacon presses his hand on my bare back.
I am too exposed, and I fucking hate it. I think it may be worse than sitting in a cage with barely any clothing. Instead, this dress is meant to seduce and tantalize, when I’d rather be ignored. Deacon touches one of my curls reverently, making me flinch. I don’t know how to behave, and I’m feeling very overstimulated after so much attention from Rubella and her daughters.
“Everyone is waiting,” he says tonelessly. Gone is the earlier warmth that I didn’t know to miss until now. “Come along.”
Deacon usually uses my name, and I feel the loss of that as I follow slightly behind him. It feels as if I’m less than human most days, it’s nice to hear the sound of my name.
Róisin Ó Cléirigh, I whisper in my mind. I know who I am, and that has to be enough until I die or leave this place. As another cramp rips through my body, I press my lips tightly together to keep silent.
I have a very bad feeling about tonight, and the pain in every step won’t allow me to drift away into my mind. Instead, everything feels hyper focused, colors are brighter despite the dim lighting, and I’m more attune to the highly polished floor beneath my feet.
Whatever is coming for me, is sure to hurt. All I can ask for is that someone will lose their control and kill me quickly. Death will be mercy compared to holding the memories of what happens next.
Chapter
Two
DEACON
Róisin fidgetsas we get closer to the ballroom, and I want to soothe her. There’s a sheen of sweat on her brow, and it almost appears as if she’s burning up. Being sick isn’t going to get her out of this performance. My father wants his little dancer to dance, and that’s what she’ll need to do.
I don’t know what he has planned outside of that, but he’s gone through a lot of work for tonight. My father is a hard man, and he has to have everything in place. The chip that he injected into my brothers and I when Balor turned fifteen ensures our obedience. It seems my father has a special affinity for ruining birthdays.
Dad mentioned that today is Róisin’s birthday, and I’m unsure if I should mention it.
None of my birthdays have been worth a shit since he adopted me at four years old. My life only got a little better when my brothers came along a few years later. We are closer than blood, we love each other, but that chains us together too. The chip is a “kill switch” injected deep into the muscle of where ourshoulders meet our necks. My father told us that messing with it will cause us to lose our heads, as it’ll explode inside of our bodies, effectively beheading us. In many ways, we are just as much prisoners as Róisin is.
Forcing the thought away because it never fails to enrage me, I step back a little more to be able to watch Róisin. Her body is a work of art. I despise what my father forced us to do to her a year ago, but the chips were already embedded in our bodies, and there was nothing we could do.
Just like all I can do is admire the way her hips swing as she walks barefoot. Her dress is nothing more than panels of sheer material, but Dad said that she chose this outfit for her performance. The way he speaks about her makes me think that she has more power than she might believe.
What prisoner chooses an outfit where her breasts are outlined against the material and her nipples strain against it like perfect pebbled diamonds? It’s tight enough that her breasts won’t bounce, and the panels of material that slide along her legs are made of different lengths. It’s as if she’s on display but not. It’s a very confusing outfit, and I hate that my cock strains with excitement against my pants.
It fills me with questions. Is the cage a front? Is she regularly sleeping with my father? Ugh, I hate that I don’t have answers!
