Page 106 of Black Ledger

Tears rolled down my face, my limbs utterly useless to help me escape. I couldn’t do anything except feel the cold entering my every pore.

My sheer white dress clung to my pebbled nipples, and I could sense the Man in Black staring at them.

“You’re killing me?” I tried to ask, my tongue thick and heavy from the drugs.

“Yes.”

Short. Simple and horrifying. That horror climbed my ribcage one rib at a time.

“Why?” The word barely passed my lips.

“Because I can.” He stroked my cheek with the back of his fingers. “And because I always keep my promises.”

A trapped, haunted sound bubbled up in my throat.

“I think you shall be the first of my masterpieces. My first mannequin to craft and pose.” He stroked my face again. “And what a beautiful doll you make, My Little Dove. People will talk about your death and how I left your body for centuries to come… my Mona Lisa.”

I pinched my eyes shut as an animal-like keen rattled in my chest. I didn’t want to be a masterpiece. I just wanted peace. Freedom.

I wanted to see my twin again and my sister, who was my other half. I wanted a hug and family and comfort.

I wanted someone to say my name.

I didn’t want to be a toy or a lifeless body used for someone else’s glory.

Because all anyone would ever talk about would be him. Not me. Him.

His sickness.

I tried to open my eyes again, but my eyelids grew heavy and droopy. The blur thickened, and the light dimmed unevenly.

It wasn’t that cold anymore.

Not really.

Not so bad anymore.

The man spoke more words to me, but they blurred together like a modern-art splotch painting. Then I felt pressure at my lips, a tugging and a repeated prickling sensation, but I couldn’t tell you what it was.

I felt the same sensation on my back.

It could have been anything, but I knew it made my breathing harder. Then again, there wasn’t much use for breathing.

Heat pooled in my stomach. So hot. So damn hot, I wanted—no, I needed to take off all of my clothes, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t move.

My nostrils flared, and pain jolted my chest. I didn’t need anyone to tell me what was happening. One last foolish wish flickered inside me: to see his face. I wanted him to tell me it was all a bad dream.

That he still loved me.

Still wanted me.

I wanted Severin Volkov to take it all back.

I wanted him to say my name the way he used to.

But that was a fool’s dream. One last tear slipped free, and a cold hopelessness burrowed into my soul.

Perhaps I should just close my eyes and let it be over. Perhaps I should simply stop fighting.