On the bus, I sit next to a girl a year or two older than me. Her hair is a mess of curls and she smells of body odor, but I wrap my arm around her shoulders anyway as she shakes with silent sobs. I stay quiet as my own tears slide down my cheeks, salty and warm.
The cut on my foot stings. I can feel the dirt and grime from the street rubbing against the open wound, but I can’t do anything about it. I can’t clean the cut with a warm washcloth and put a band-aid on it like my mom always does. None of us have anything but the clothes on our backs: no personal belongings, no family photos, nothing to differentiate one girl from the next, except maybe our names.
The bus engine roars to life, causing several girls to startle and cry out, but we fall silent as the driver steps on and surveys us closely.Like the other men, he wears all black and a mask that reveals only his eyes, which betray no emotion as his gaze scans over each one of us.
His voice comes out muffled, but still clear enough for us to understand. “There are two rules on this bus.” He holds up his fingers one at a time. “Don’t talk. Don’t move. Follow those rules and the next six hours will go by just fine.”
Six hours?I think.Where are they taking us?
One girl raises a trembling hand. The driver’s eyes land on her, but he ignores her and walks toward his seat. She must be bolder than me, because she speaks anyway.“What if we need to go to the bathroom?”
The driver goes eerily still as we sit and await his answer. He turns around and stalks back toward her, his dark eyes now filled with anger. He grabs her cheeks roughly with one hand, covering her mouth with his palm as he screams in her face. “What’s rule number one?”
The girl sobs as she wets herself, a small puddle collecting beneath the bench. Other girls who were crying quickly swallow their tears, and the bus grows completely silent, save for thedrip drip dripof her urine onto the dirty metal floor.
The skin around the man’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and even with the mask on, I can tell he’s smiling. “Well,” he says. “I guess we took care of that problem, didn’t we?” He releases the girl’s face and walks back to the front and takes his seat, shifting the bus into gear.
After that, no one dares to break another rule.
Delilah
Present Day
“Nature intended women to be our slaves. They are our property… Women are nothing but machines for producing children.”— NAPOLEON BONAPARTE
The marble floor bites into my knees, a persistent, stabbing sensation that gets worse the longer my joints are subjected to the unforgiving surface. I swallow my discomfort and continue scrubbing the stain left by the glass of red wine I dropped on my way to the drawing room. The bristles of the toothbrush—now stained a dark maroon—swish rhythmically as I swirl the tool in tiny circular motions to try and lift the spot. Abandoning the toothbrush, I use a microfiber cloth to sop up the red, soapy water, holding my breath as I soak up the last of the cleaner.
“Dammit,” I whisper, noticing the slight discoloration still tainting the white stone. I retrieve the toothbrush from the bucket and start scrubbing more vigorously, knowing the punishment for my folly will be far worse than the short-term discomfort of a sore back and bruised knees. These floors—along with everything else in this home—cost more than I could imagine. While I’m not privy to the exact amount, I have enough sense to understand an unsightly stain in the main foyer is unacceptable.
“What are you doing?”
I freeze mid-swipe. I’m not sure what’s worse—the fact that I spilled in the first place, or the fact that he found out before I could finish cleaning. I slowly loosen my grip on the toothbrush and crane my neck behind me, taking in the sight of the man in the doorway.
He’s handsome by all accounts: taller than most, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and a clean-shaven jaw. Add those striking blue eyes into the equation, and many women would swoon at the sight of him. In his three-piece suit, he looks like the well-groomed men on the covers of the romance novels my mother used to read.
I push the inappropriate thoughts ofbeforeout of my mind and clear my throat, standing slowly and keeping my eyes down. “I’m sorry, sir. I hoped I would be able to finish before you came home.”
Theclick-clackof his leather dress shoes echoes on the stone in the otherwise unoccupied space as he approaches me, and my heart beats faster in my chest. Directly in front of me now, I can smell the familiar, woodsy notes of his cologne, and I clasp my hands together to stop them from shaking. He lifts his hand to my face, placing two fingers under my chin and applying pressure, forcing me to lift my head. “Delilah,” he says. “Look at me.”
I swallow, forcing my gaze up to his. I expect to see anger in his eyes, but there’s only amusement. That’s when Ismell it, the spicy remnants of scotch lingering on his breath. If I had to guess, he’s had at least two, but no more than four—that’s the sweet spot. Any less, and he’s still unyieldingly rigid. Any more, and he’s angry at the drop of a hat. I paste what I hope is a convincing smile on my face, relaxing ever-so-slightly. “Yes, sir?”
“We have maids for that.” He nods at the cleaning supplies on the floor.
“It was my fault,” I say, hoping he doesn’t catch the slight wobble in my voice. I’ve been punished for much less than a spilled glass of wine, after all.
“Maid!” I wince as the deep timbre of his voice carries down the hall.
Hurried steps draw closer before the housekeeper rounds the corner, approaching him and dropping into a slight curtsy once she’s about five feet away. “Yes, my lord?”
He snaps his fingers and points at the mess I left, keeping his attention on me. “Finish cleaning this up.”
“Right away, my lord.” The seasoned maid immediately drops to the floor and continues the work I started. She’s at least three decades older than me, but she voices no complaint. As a woman past child-bearing age, options for service are limited. She’s probably grateful for the opportunity to work in a house such as this.
The lord of the house runs his gaze up and down my body. Per usual, I’m wearing a dress and stockings as women aren’t permitted to wear pants. I resist the urge to smooth my frizzy, chestnut hair, a habitthat was beaten out of me at the Institute. I stay stock-still as he takes in my bronze skin, dull brown eyes, and the curves I wish weren’t there. I’ve never considered myself particularly eye-catching, but the way he’s looking at me would suggest otherwise. He always looks at me like this: hungry, with that underlying predatory gleam. But, while other men might look, they wouldn’t dare touch another man’s wife.
The grandfather clock chimes from the parlor, and his gaze reluctantly finds its way back to mine. “You should get changed. The other lords will be arriving soon.”
I dip my chin, dropping my eyes once again. Before I can turn away, he grabs my wrist and pulls me into his body, burying his nose in the crevice of my neck. His large hand finds the round globe of my backside and he palms the flesh there, unabashedly rubbing his erection against my hip. I laugh, trying to keep the mood light. “Sir, we have an audience.”
