She accepted it long ago, wrapped it around her heart like a shroud, and now it’s part of her.
The whore. The concubine. Taking what she’s given, offering what she must. It’s the only role she plays anymore. A part she learned long ago, perfected, and never deviates from.
“You could marry her,” Elaine says, her voice barely a whisper, but the words hang in the air like lead weights. “You could save her.”
I stare at her, the glass emptying my hand. The implication hangs there, thick and suffocating. She’s offering me… what? Her blessing?
“I can do no such thing.” I snap back. Grace is as condemned as her mother is.
“You can.” She says, sounding more alive, more animated than ever. “You have the power Antonio, you have…”
She’s suddenly on her knees, clutching at the fabric of my clothes, begging me. My hand clamps around her jaw, tightening enough that my knuckles turn white.
It’s like there’s a crack in the brittle mask she wears, a glimpse of the desperate hope still buried deep beneath the resignation. Or is it just another tool in her arsenal? Another way to manipulate, to plead, to try and claw back something she lost years ago.
“Elaine,” I start, the sound of my own name on her lips echoing strangely. My voice is rougher now. “What are you talking about? It’s impossible, and you know it.”
Her eyes meet mine then, and the depth in them is terrifying. “Not for you. Do it before the auction.” She says like she’s giving me orders now. “If she is your wife, they cannot sell her. If she is yours, they will not touch her.”
There’s no malice, no guile. Just a raw, pleading vulnerability that cuts through the layers of her carefully crafted facade. She drops her gaze, her long lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. For a moment I see the young girl again, the one who I know did love me, the one who believed in impossible dreams. The one who saw a future, maybe with me, maybe without me, but not this; this bleak, degraded existence.
Then, without warning the mask slides back into place, faster than I can track its movement. Her head snaps up, and she’s begging in a way I bet she’s done to so many men before me. The silk dress slips over her thigh whether on purpose or by accident, baring the curve of her hip.
“Please, Antonio. Don’t do this. Don’t make me, don’t make her, don’t turn her intothis, please.”
The image of Grace, pale and fragile, flashes behind my eyes. This is insane. Utterly, completely mad. She’s trying to emotionally blackmail me? To use her daughter as some sort of leverage?
“Take off the dress and spread your legs, Elaine,” I say, my voice dangerously low, the words clipped, stripped of any softness. The command is absolute, leaving no room for negotiation or further pleading. I need distance. I need to break the connection, to focus on the task at hand, the transaction I came here for.
Her head snaps up again, but this time there’s no defiance, no tears yet. She looks at me, really looks at me and sees the wall I’ve built up. The impenetrable fortress of my grief, anger, and sheer loathing that festers under the surface. Slowly, almost unwillingly, she obeys. The silk dress slips off, pooling around her ankles. She lies back, almost entirely naked on the bed, her movements precise, economical. No hint of the desperate plea left in them, just the performer executing her cue.
I watch her from where I stand by the door, the last dregs of my drink forgotten in my hand.
She looks magnificent, terrifying.
Like some ancient statue brought to life for a single, forbidden purpose. Her skin gleams under the weak light, the curve of her breasts rising, her underwear already damp as if she’s eager for this.
She’s waiting. Patient. Ready.
My own body reacts before my mind can catch up. My cock strains against my trousers.
I need to touch her.
To possess her.
To erase the memory of Titus, of her husband and the past, and this insane entire conversation.
“Touch yourself.” I order, tossing the glass and letting it smash on the stone in a manner that makes her flinch. “Show me how much your cunt wants me and not him.”
She doesn’t blink, doesn’t react to my words beyond moving her hand and following the orders like a robot. She pulls her thong aside, revealing her shaved pink flesh and I stand there, watching. Pretending that we’re back in ourtwenties, that I’m the one she’s going to marry, that it’s my children she’ll carry, my cock she’ll beg for… well, she’s begging for it now, isn’t she?
The jacket comes off first, tossed onto the back of the waiting chair. Then the shirt, the fabric falling away to reveal the hard lines of my chest and stomach, the dust smudges on my skin.
I step towards the bed, my boots making soft thuds on the floorboards. She watches me, her expression unreadable, her eyes fixed on my face while her fingers massage her clit like this is all routine.
But I see the flicker of something else there now; not just resignation, but a hungry anticipation. Does she think I’ll be kind this time? Does she think all our previous encounters were ‘one-offs’?
The bitch doesn’t deserve my kindness. She doesn’t deserve anything but to be used.
