Our numbers dwindled and the lavish picnics I’d often walk past on my reluctant way to work grew less and less. I didn’t know how many women were still alive, but it was definitely fewer than what first entered.
At least Laura—the other ‘mistake’—was still alive. Keeping to the outskirts and doing her best not to antagonise the others.
Another silver lining about being forced to do physical work meant sleep returned. Most nights, I’d tumble into bed, exhausted from working all day.
In the mornings, I always took my time before reporting to Lucien. I’d cling to laziness and the safety of doing nothing—taking a long shower, eating a slow breakfast, dressing in the least restricting dresses I could find.
At least, with those snatched moments of doing the bare minimum, I managed to hold it together long enough to deal with Lucien and his many household demands.
But what I hated the most was the blood-harvesting.
Every third day, I’d be forced to help, even though I’d said I would never bleed him again. Even though I liked to think I could make some choices in here, I wasn’t allowed to make that one.
He’d drag me into that half-office, half-hospital room.
He’d walked me through the process again, keeping predator eyes on me as I swayed and swallowed and did my best to stay conscious.
And then he’d make me bleed him, tag the bags, and carry them to the fridge.
By the fifth time, I’d learned how to shut myself down enough that the sensation of his warm blood in those slippery anticoagulant bags didn’t make me quite as nauseous.
I shut down my stupid heart and obeyed him because I couldn’t do anything else.
I’d lived in this elegant nightmare for almost a month.
I’d walked the gardens while the fires of hell burned every night and witnessed the bodies of women who’d come to murder him being carried out each morning.
And I thought nothing would get better or worse.
Until it did.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
THE RATS IN MY HOME WERE fewer than last month.
More blood covered my hands, coating me with murders that barely sated the need for vengeance.
I didn’t know how much longer I could keep doing this.
How much longer I could stop myself from slipping into madness or ignoring the suicidal whispers that promised an end to this misery.
The battle between living to kill and dying for freedom tangled me up until I no longer knewwhatI wanted.
My hands curled as I stood on the roof and glowered at Cinderkeep below. Fire danced on towering torches and flames flickered in lanterns, turning my prison into the belly of the underworld.
Perhaps I’d already died and didn’t know it.
Maybe I already dwelled in hell.
Whisper nudged my hip.
I looked down at the sleek black beast, andshesprang into my head.
My teeth gnashed together as my poisoned heart kicked.
I needed to kill her.
The longer we spent time together—mainly in silence and tension—the more I struggled with what the fuck I was doing.
