The numbness inside me shatters, and it is replaced by a surge of pure, unadulterated rage.
It’s her or me.
It has always been her or me.
A sound rips from my throat, something between a sob and a snarl. I am no longer Grace, I am an animal, cornered and fighting for its life as I launch myself at her.
Felice screams and raises her arms to defend herself. I don’t aim for her arms. I am a whirlwind of claws and cold metal as I beat her with the heavy base of the candlestick, and scratch at her face. She fights back, her nails raking down my arms, her teeth sinking into my shoulder.
The pain is sharp and clean, feeding my frenzy, and it feels so fucking good.
We are two bitches in a pit, and only one will walk out.
She tried to kill me. She would do it again in a heartbeat.
She manages to shove me off, and I stagger back. She lunges for the knife on the floor, but I’m faster. As her fingers close around the hilt, I bring the broken, jagged end of the candlestick down with all my strength.
It doesn’t hit her arm. It finds the soft, vulnerable hollow of her throat.
There is a horrific, grating sound as the fractured wood tears through flesh and gristle. Felice’s eyes bulge. Her mouth opens, but instead of a scream, a torrent of blood bubbles out. She makes a choking, gurgling sound, her hands flying to her neck, trying to stem the impossible flow. She stares at me, a look of profound, stupid surprise on her face.
I don’t pull it out. I shove it deeper, twisting it, using all my weight until the wood is buried deep and she is pinned like a butterfly. I wonder if she can taste it, can taste me still lingering there on the surface?
Her body convulses once, twice, then slumps. Her eyes glaze over, fixed on nothing.
Silence.
The only sound is my own ragged, torn breathing as blood drips from my hair, my chin, my hands.
I step back, my legs threatening to give way. The rage evaporates as quickly as it came, leaving behind a vast, terrifying emptiness. God, what have I done? What have I become after less than a day of being the Devil’s?
Antonio approaches me. He doesn’t look at the carnage. he looks only at me. He reaches out and cups my cheek, his thumb wiping away a streak of blood. His touch is almost reverent.
“Good,” he says again, his voice low and intimate.
He takes my hand and leads me out and I am a ghost, following mutely.
I don’t look back. I don’t want to see what I’ve done now. The door clangs shut behind us, sealing the horror within.
We climb the stairs. The cold air of the hallway feels like a blessing and a curse, washing over my blood-soaked skin. The world seems distant, muted.
As we approach his chambers, a figure emerges from a shadowy alcove. Mateus. His eyes, so like Antonio’s yet so different, sweep over me. He must take in my nakedness, the blood coating me from head to toe, the vacant look in my eyes but his face is unreadable, a mask of cold observation.
There is no shock, no pity, no judgment.
There is nothing. He simply watches as his brother leads his new, blood-drenched pet back to her kennel. He doesn’t say a word.
Antonio pulls me into his bathroom. It’s opulent with a deep, sunken tub. He turns on the taps, and steaming hot water begins to pour forth. He leads me to the tub and helps me step in as the water instantly clouds pink with blood.
He doesn’t speak. He picks up a soft sponge and a cake of expensive-smelling soap as he kneels beside the tub and begins to wash me. His movements are meticulous, gentle even. He washes the blood from my arms, my face, my neck. He cleans under my fingernails, he washes my hair, his fingers massaging my scalp, rinsing away the gore. He is cleansing me of my sin, anointing me in his own twisted baptism.
I sit in the water, passive. Letting him tend to me, feeling the warmth of the water, the gentleness of his touch, but I cannot feel iton me. It’s happening to the shell. The inside of me is frozen solid, locked in that cellar, watching myself become a monster.
He washes every inch of me, until the water runs clear and my skin is scrubbed raw and pink. He lifts me out, wraps me in a large, fluffy towel, and dries me with the same careful attention.
He laysme on the bed and I lie perfectly still, staring at the ornate, dark wood of the canopy above me. My body feels like it belongs to someone else now, a hollowed-out vessel, recently occupied. The phantom sensation of his hands, his mouth, his possession lingers on my flesh like a stain.
I did it, I pretended. I arched my back and made the sounds he wanted to hear, I let my eyes go soft and adoring.
