Page 2 of The Little Shop of Curiosities Cursed Object 1, The Music Box

His expression is one I’ve come to recognise. It’s the one he never shows the rest of the world. This is him without his mask, all traces of humanity gone and an emptiness left that I can’t explain. It’s like he’s missing his soul.

“I see you’re going to be difficult tonight,” he says, one of his brows lifting a fraction. A deeply unpleasant smile curves his lips. It’s unsettling, makes my stomach tighten. There’s no humour in that smile, but there is a cruel hunger.

He calmly sets the lamp on the floor and places the keys beside it. His polished shoes make a slow, ominous clicking sound as he crosses the small room towards me. I can’t help the involuntary shift of my body, and I press myself tighter against the wall. There’s no chance of me fighting him off, not with my arms pinned to my body the way they are, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be compliant in any way.

I glare at him, and hate for this man vibrates through every single inch of my body. He crouches in front of me, his head tilting slightly as he watches me. Slowly, he lifts a hand and tucks a matted curl of my hair behind my ear, his fingers graze the sharp angle of my cheek bone.

I used to be softer, with curves that drew many an appreciative gaze, but now I’m too thin, my face gaunt with hollowed cheeks and sharp angles, my bones barely covered by a layer of dry skin. A result of too many drugs and too little food.

“Still a beautiful woman,” he says quietly, almost to himself, and trails his finger down to my jaw.

I jerk away from him, but he grips my face, his fingertips dig painfully into the hinges of my jaw, hard enough to leave bruises. Not that anyone would notice…or care.

“Are you going to struggle?” he whispers, his eyes burning with an unholy kind of glee. “You know how much more I enjoy our time together when you struggle.”

I give a feral kind of hiss and yank my head back despite the pain it causes when he doesn’t loosen his grip.

“Yes,” he hums. “That’s it. You know what I’m going to do to you, don’t you?”

I don’t answer, but he leans in closer anyway, until I can smell his cologne, something woodsy mixed with bergamot. Just the hint of it makes my stomach churn with nausea.

“I’m going to make it hurt,” he croons, his face so close to mine I can feel his breath against my mouth. “You can’t imagine how much sweeter it is when I break through that iron control of yours and make you scream in agony.”

I hold his gaze, my disgust for him evident in my tone when I give a harsh whisper. “You’re the one who’s going to scream.”

His eyes widen in surprise that I’ve actually spoken, but before he can say anything, I lunge forward and sink my teeth viciously into his lower lip. He cries out, but I lock onto that mouthful of flesh and refuse to release him.

He bellows out a furious scream tinged with pain and tries to push me off him, but my teeth are clamped down tight and I’m not letting go. He continues to scream even as the coppery taste of his blood fills my mouth. In desperation, he grabs a handful of my matted hair and yanks hard.

My head snaps back and we finally separate. He falls backwards and hits the floor with a thud, scrambling away from me. Blood pours down his chin, the crimson fluid staining his once pristine white coat. His eyes are filled with shock and his mouth is fixed in a rictus grin, lower teeth exposed.

I stare at him in utter contempt and spit the useless lump of flesh that used to be his lower lip on the floor between us. He stares at it in horror, and for the first time in years, I smile.

“Does it hurt?” I say coldly. It was what he always used to murmur in my ear as he forced his cock inside me.

He holds his hand to his mouth in a useless attempt to stem the gush of blood and scrambles to his feet. I watch dispassionately when he almost wrenches the door of its hinges and disappears into the corridor.

“Does it hurt?” I scream at his retreating form before I throw my head back and laugh maniacally. Like a cacophony of hyenas, my loud cackling sets off the other patients. I can hear them screaming and hollering, bangs and crashes ringing out, and I continue to laugh and laugh, my voice shrill and mocking.

Punishment comes quicker than I expected. Within minutes, Dr Whyte is back, a thickly folded square of muslin pressed to the grim open wound of his mouth. He’s flanked by Hobbs and Cooper, his lackeys masquerading as orderlies, but I’ve seen the look in their eyes. They share their employer’s love of the suffering of others.

“Take her to the bath,” Whyte orders, but his command is muffled and distorted. It also sounds wet.

The two burly men stride forward and unbuckle the wide leather belt that has kept me tethered to the wall; they leave the straitjacket though. I am lifted between them, my numb legs dangling uselessly beneath me, a clear foot above the ground as they carry me from the room.

The corridors are dimly lit, and the smoky tallow of the wall sconces give off a sickly scent. Bangs and clatters echo along the corridor as shrieking patients throw themselves against their locked doors, screeching like harpies.

I’m still laughing. The energy from the patients pulses in the air like a living, breathing entity. Their madness feeds me. I can feel Dr Whyte’s eyes burn into my back. I’m carried forcibly to a large room on the next floor, a room I know all too well. I know what’s coming, but I’m not afraid. It will be worth every second of torture to be able to relive Whyte’s scream of agony as I ripped his flesh from his cruel face.

I am done with men trying to control me.

For the first time in years, I feel my magic stir in my blood, not yet awake but shifting restlessly. It’s only a matter of time before I regain control of my power and then I will make every single man who’s wronged me suffer.

Cooper kicks the door and it crashes open, the sound echoing loudly. My eyes land on another familiar-looking figure. Sister Agatha, impeccable as always in her high-necked, long-sleeved gown of dark blue, a starched white apron pinned to her front and tied around her thin waist. Her dark hair is scraped back tightly into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, and as usual, her pale face bears a look of pinched disapproval.

She stands beside a large tin bath filled with what I know to be ice-cold water. Her eyes widen in horror when she takes in my appearance, most likely noting the blood still sticky on my chin and saturating the front of my straitjacket. Her mouth tightens and her gaze slides across to Dr Whyte, who has now entered the room behind me, the blood-soaked muslin pressed to his mouth.

The straitjacket I’ve been imprisoned in is roughly unbuckled and stripped from my body. Once free, my arms drop heavily to my sides. It’s a struggle to lift them, they’re so numb from hours and hours held immobile. Before I can do anything, Hobbs and Cooper pick me up once more. I struggle against them, but it’s no use—my body won’t cooperate and the two men are big and powerful. But still I scratch and bite and shriek, clawing at any inch of skin I can reach.