“No.” I gasp, tears streaming freely now. “Get it out. Please, get it out of me.”
Conrad laughs, a harsh, grating sound devoid of any warmth. “Oh, Gracey. That’s the point.” He shifts his weight slightly, and I feel the needle move.
Magnus nods, his expression unreadable.
He takes a thick, metallic bar, perhaps an inch thick, wrapped in a thin, clear coating, and at the end, a small, perfectly cut diamond dangles down. The sight of it is horrifying.
My breath catches in my throat. Words fail me.
He presses down, applying pressure, and I feel a searing pain as the thing forces its way through my skin. The sensation of sharpness followed by the bar being pushed inside is excruciating.
It feels like I’m being stretched, violated, rearranged. There’s no way to brace myself, no escape. I can only take it, endure it, and pray for the oblivion of unconsciousness, for the moment when this torment ends.
Magnus picks something else up, twisting it around, touching me in places he has no right and though it’s almost certainly unintentional, it still feels violating. It still feels like a form of rape.
When it’s done there’s a sickening tinkle, tinkle sound; the metallic clang of the diamond bell, dangling from the bar, no doubt matching the two dangling from my nipples.
I cry out, a high-pitched whimper escaping my lips. Magnus immediately steps back, grabbing a mirror from the bag they brought with them and while Conrad pulls my labia back, the glass is angled so that I can see myself, I can see what they have done to me. I can see it all.
“You see?” Magnus says, pointing at where he’s just brutalised me. Where he’s just mutilated me.
I don’t want to look. I don’t want to and yet it’s like a car crash, I can’t tear my eyes away. There’s a bar, a half loop that dangles down, with not just one but two bells on each end. It dangles with my clit between it, like it’s framing me. Highlighting my most intimate part.
I shudder, and a wave of adrenaline makes me almost puke.
The pair of them step back, and I slump into the floor while they stare down at me.
I shut my legs quickly, too quickly, and am rewarded with a sharp bolt of white-hot pain that makes me double over. It’s going to take forever to heal. All of this will.
But as I sit up, as I snatch at the remnants of my dress to cover myself, I realise that’s the point. I have years left here. Years of torment. They’ve done this while there’s plenty of time for me to heal, plenty of time to ensure I’m ready for their damned auction.
She’s curled up on her bed, she looks so fragile, rocking back and forth. Her shoulders are shaking violently, and the sound of her crying is relentless. A raw, unfiltered agony that seems to echo in the small space and spill out into the night air.
She flinches at the sound of my footsteps, her head snapping up. Her eyes are red-rimmed, swollen, glistening in the faint light of the panel above us. She sees me, and for a split second there’s pure, unadulterated terror in them, like a trapped animal spotting a predator. Then, the sobbing intensifies, becoming almost hysterical, wracking her entire body. She curls herself into a tighter ball, burying her face further.
My steps are hesitant, I’m careful not to startle her more.
Softly. I have to be soft in this moment.
I want to reach out, to touch her shoulder, but I stop myself. Sometimes, proximity is the only thing you can offer. Touching requires trust, and trust, trust is a fragile thing right now. I fuck this moment up, I fuck up everything. All my carefully laid plans.
“Grace,” I say, my voice rough, unused to the strain. “It’s okay.”
The crying doesn’t stop, it escalates. It’s not just tears; it’s like she’s drowning, like her lungs are full of saltwater, and her heart is shattering into a million pieces. “No,” she gasps between sobs, the word barely audible. “No, it’s not okay. They, they’re coming again…”
I crouch down beside the bed, keeping my distance, my hands clenched in my lap.
“They’re going to hurt me again,” she whispers, the words slurring together with the force of her crying. “They… they said…”
“Who, Grace?” I ask, acting like I don’t know, like I didn’t set them on her. I intentionally keep my voice gentler this time. “Who’s coming? Tell me.”
She shakes her head, frantic, burying her face deeper in her knees as a choked sob escapes. “I… I can’t…”
“Who, Grace?” I press, my voice low and calm, trying to anchor her in the present moment, away from whatever demons are chasing her through the darkness of her memory. “You have to tell me. You can trust me, remember? Who’s hurting you?”
She takes a long, shuddering breath. Then, her voice is a raw, broken thing, spat out like poison. “The man you sold my family out to.” The words are a hiss, venomous, and I feel every bit of it. “Magnus Blake and his brother, Conrad.”
My heart starts hammering against my ribs, a frantic rhythm against the quiet. It’s the first time she’s outwardly accused me, outwardly said anything. Up until now she’s allowed my visits, my comfort, my time like she’s granting me the favour.
