“Come on! The day is upon us, you lucky girl,” he says.
I wonder what I look like now. Is there any meat left on my bones? Have I wasted away like the leaves of a tree, all essence of life withered from my being?
He sighs. “Fine, be a lazy ass. I knew you would be. Benedict!”
He summons one of his slaves. He’d call them employees, housemaids, service people. But they’re slaves. The things these people do for him are at complete odds with the normal criteria of a standard butler.
Squeaky wheels run over the cobblestones and draw closer to me. He’s in my cell. I can picture leaping up, jumping on Benedict like a spider monkey and biting an ear off, before lunging for my dad, ripping his nose off his smug face and running away. I’m pretty sure my legs twitch at the idea.
I’m scooped up off the floor. It’s akin to having skin ripped off. My body having moulded perfectly to the grooves and dips and bumps of the ground, I’d become one with the stone. An animalistic groan tumbles out of my lips as agony rips through me. Every bone and muscle that had lain idle for days screaming in protest. I just want to lie here. I want to be still.
I’m dropped into a seat and my head’s pulled back before it can loll my body forward.
“Very good,” Dad says, pleased, “take her straight to the front doors now. Don’t want to keep him waiting any longer.”
Ah, my betrothed. My beloved husband-to-be awaits my gracious arrival. I work on opening my eyelids so I can catch the spectacle of his reaction when he sees his gorgeous, perfectly-put-together, promised wife for the first time.
The clean, light air bites through my stagnant nostrils. The overbearing sunshine, pouring in through all the windows we pass, sends little spears of pain through my skull. Along with the sweltering heat that penetrates my cold, clammy body, I’m guessing we’ve now transitioned from spring to summer.
I taste copper and dust when I poke my rough tongue out to wet my dry, chapped lips. My stiff, aching body is swarming with gratitude when we reach the marble floor, smooth sailing from then to the main entrance.
I finally adjust to the elements by the time we conclude our lengthy travel to the front doors. My vision’s blurry, eyeballs dry and sore, but I see him. His silhouette anyway.
The front doors are open behind him, bathing him in sunlight, creating a glow around that silhouette. It’s a tall one. Not very broad. Slim, like a runner’s build. Not much muscle going on. Hair’s messy on the top of his head, tendrils sticking up every which way. Must have driven with the top down. I imagine he’s got some flash convertible to match his status. Not that I know who he is. I just know he’s part of the underworld, hence rich as fuck.
My eyes clear bit by bit, allowing me to take more of him in at a time. Pale skin. Like he spends his days in a basement. Or a cell. Probably have the same colour skin, any tan I had has most certainly faded by now, eaten away by the endless darkness.
My head feels like it might tip over as I tilt it to focus on his features. I more so feel, rather than see, his eyes spearing into mine. Through my blurry and distorted vision, I can just about see they’re assessing me even closer than I am him. They’re a cutting green, dark but dull. Like moss covering the windows to his soul. There’re balls of silver sporadically across his face, the sunlight bouncing off them and making me wince away from the brightness. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t so much as offer me more than a slight upward curl of his lip, which can only be identified as disgust. It’s all blurry though, so it’s just an inkling.
You wouldn’t look so hot after a week in a dungeon either, buddy.
There is an air to him that rushes me like a breeze filled with spikes. It’s hard, sharp, ominous. Definitely not a welcoming energy.
It penetrates me so forcefully I cringe away, closing my eyes again.
“Here she is,” my dad’s voice floats forward.
I can just picture him flourishing his arms at me, presenting me like some goddess of the clouds. Not some crippled bundle of skin and bones in a wheelchair.
“What’s wrong with her?” the man’s voice is a raspy slice of disdain that reverberates through my stomach.
“Like I said to your father, she has discipline issues. You may have to teach her some manners.”
The guy grunts, sounding as uninterested as possible. “No luggage?”
“Nothing worth keeping. You can dress her as you want her.”
The guy huffs quietly. Seems neither of us are ecstatic about our new union.
“So, what does she do usually?” he says.
“Nothing. She’s only good for her job,” Dad sneers, “and making a nuisance of herself.”
“Why have you kept her around if you despise her so much?”
Dad clears his throat, my own tightens. “I lost my favourite child. She’s my only chance of continuing my bloodline. Her mother’s not alive to give me another kid. I need an heir, as do you. A merger for both our families. This girl is pretty pathetic, but at least she can give you a child.”
Favourite child. Just the vague mention of Lewis has my chest tightening. If he was his favourite, how could he never have picked up that he probably wouldn’t have got an heir from Lewis? Not in the traditional way, anyway.
