Me.
I try to move but my legs won’t obey. They root into the stone like they want to fuse with the earth, like they’d rather entomb me here than let me intervene.
The Obsidian leader lifts a hand, and then his gaze slides, past me, over me, through me, like a blade so sharp you don’t even realise you’re cut, and lands on his eldest son standing at the side of the dais.
Gore.
A shadow cast in human form. A man with grief in his bones and violence in his blood. He steps forward, jaw clenched, fists still at his sides. Waiting.
“As your future leader,” Milus’s voice carries through the crowd, his words penetrating every one of his followers. “Gore will administer the lashes.”
I’ve never seen Gore look anything but solemn. He never shows an ounce of anything on his face. This time is no different. He looks at his younger brother. Then at me.
And something inside me fractures.
Milus is tearing his family apart one cruelty at a time. That’s what this cult does. It breaks what it claims to sanctify.
And this time, Milus is using me to do it.
To get between brothers.
Billy stands tall. He doesn’t look away from his brother. And those bright blue eyes are telling him he forgives him already. Telling him he knows he has no choice.
I feel sick, guilt flowing through me like sludge sticking in my veins.
Gore steps up, taking the instrument, thin coiled leather, into his large, tattooed hands. He’s one of the only people here not wearing gloves, his inked skin exposed to the freezing December temperatures.
Then I realise it’s Christmas morning, and despite The Obsidian not recognising it, I think of the one I spent with Billyin the group home all those years ago. The gift he gave me, the locket around my neck.
I whisper my words to Gore, “Please don’t,” even though I know he can’t hear me, even though I know it wouldn’t matter if he could.
Milus slinks back, his mouth stoic, not pulled up at the corners to match the triumphant smile celebrating in his eyes. Billy goes to his knees, facing the crowd, and his eyes come to mine. Even though he told me to stay away, even though he ordered it. He looks to me like he knew I’d be here all along.
Our baby kicks, hard, like he senses the terror spiralling through me. Like he wants me to move, act, flee, anything. But I can’t. I can’t move. I can’t look away.
This is the cost of loving him.
This is the cost of him loving me.
The first lash lands with a crack of sound that slices the air in two.
I choke on a sob that never fully forms, my vision tunnels. The crowd shifts, murmuring like they’re watching a show, not a punishment. My whole body shakes, knees threatening to buckle.
But I don’t fall.
I make myself watch.
Because he is taking this for me.
For our child.
Another lash.
And another.
Billy doesn’t cry out.
Not once.
