No, not a woman. A dog.
That is what I am. A mindless whore of a dog.
I take several gulping breaths, trying to force the air into my frozen lungs.
The low hum of masculine voices drifts from the grand foyer. I recognize the sonorous, accented baritone of the Grand Master for all the times he has spoken with Antonio. Another voice, sharper, more nasal must belong to Charles, the Chapter Lord. The other two are unfamiliar, but their tones are just as assured, just as laden with unspoken authority.
My heart thumps louder and louder as I realise, it’s time.
I walk on unsteady legs to the top of the curved staircase, my hand slick on the banister. Below, in the cavernous reception hall, the men stand like a council of Kings. Antonio is at the centre, the gracious host. He glances up, and his eyes command me down.
Every step is an agony of self-consciousness. The dress feels thinner with every descending stair. I can feel their collective gaze lift to me, a palpable pressure. I keep my eyes fixed on the polished marble floor, on the intricate patterns that seem to swim beneath my feet and threaten to make me topple over.
I am a spectacle, a whimsical toy for them all to amuse themselves with, and I hate it.
Antonio doesn’t introduce me, he simply gestures to a spot on the Persian rug beside his chair at the head of the table. My place.
I sink to my knees, the movement practiced from countless dinners like this, though never with an audience of this magnitude. The silk shifts across my thighs and I desperately want to grab hold of the hem, to wrench it across and cover myself but I can’t. Instead I fold my hands in my lap, keeping back straight, head bowed, making myself as small as possible.
“This is Titus’s daughter, is it not?” One of the men asks.
Antonio murmurs a reply.
The man tilts his head, making a point of examining me. “And the mother is in Oblivion?”
“She is.” Antonio says.
“Stupid bitch is getting her karma for disobeying my orders.” The man I know to be Konstantine comments. “Titus of course paid for his arrogance in a far quicker manner.”
“And the daughter is now your whore?” A different man says, amused.
“My Pet.” Antonio corrects, dropping his hand to settle on my head. “She has spent many months learning her place.”
I shut my eyes, I can’t help it as the sound of their triumphant laughter echoes around me.
Antonio takes my arm, pulls me up, and we walk through to where the grand dining room is. The men all take their seats and I take my place once more, kneeling on the floor.
A fragrant smell fills the room as servants start bringing out the first course, and the conversation changes as if I no longer exist.
“The situation in Kavaria is concluding more swiftly than anticipated,” Konstantine says, his voice filling the room as soon as the servants are gone. “The President has a flight scheduled this evening, and the news will announce his death before sunrise. A tragedy for the nation.”
The other men laugh, though I note Antonio does not. I’m certain he has played a part in that. My father told me often about how many pies Antonio has his fingers in, that he can point to any place on the map and list off all the ways Antonio Macrae has either helped or hindered it.
I focus on the pattern of the rug, tracing the intricate vines and flowers with my eyes, trying to disappear into them.
Antonio picks up his spoon. Between sips, he dips it back into his bowl and then holds it out to me, not even looking down. “Here, Pup.”
I lean forward, opening my mouth quickly, anxious not to spill any of the content down my dress. The soup should be delicious, a delicate lobster bisque, but it tastes like ash.
I take the morsel and retreat back to my position as I struggle to swallow it.
He does it again and again, feeding me bits of seared scallop, tender filet mignon, roasted asparagus.
Each time I am hyper-aware of the other men, of their occasional, fleeting glances in my direction. Their eyes are not lecherous; they are observational. As if noting the training of a fine hound or the obedience of a prized falcon.
I am a testament to Antonio’s dominion.
The talk above me shifts from assassination to assets. “The mineral rights are the true prize,” one of the men I don’t know says. His voice is crisp, educated. “The lithium deposits there are the largest untapped reserves in the world. With the government in chaos, our subsidiaries can move in and secure the contracts before any real opposition can form.”
