Page 11 of Wreck and Ruin
“She’s a pretty little dove, isn’t she, Jeremy?” The man on my left says hungrily into my hair.
“What would you like us to do with her, Father Grimsby?” The other man questions. His voice is smoother than when he spoke before, making him sound less intimidating. But then, his hand travels to my chest, slipping underneath the neckline of my cotton dress, resting it right above my breast, and any illusion of safety instantly evaporates.
“Isaac spoke to Abraham, his father, and said,‘Behold the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb for the offering?’Father says, virtually to himself, and I think he may be losing it a little because I don’t know how that has anything to do with me.
He stalks toward me, and the man on my left releases his grip on my hair, allowing me to turn and face Father, now standing before me. The other man removes his hand from inside my tattered dress, tearing it a little as he does. Father waits in silence, his silver eyebrow raised, wearing a look of impatience that I've seen him wear many times over the years.
“Well, gentlemen, here’s your fucking lamb.”
I go completely still.
A sharp, stinging sensation forms deep in my chest as my breath threatens to give away my fear. I’m not quite sure what I’m supposed to do at this moment, but I decide that he would want nothing more than for me to follow through with whatever he asks, and honestly, that might be my safest option. Without a word, he reaches for my hands and holds them like he does before we begin our games.
Father and I have always had a silent understanding. We read each other in ways that come with years of knowing someone intimately, making secret keeping damn near impossible. But as I stare up at the only man I have ever known, I see nothing but wreckage, pain, and rot as dread crashes over me, stronger than any of the waves I’d seen outside in the storm today.
He killed my mother.
I don’t know why I forget about that sometimes. I just do. The evil swirling in his irises only triggers my memories because it's the same look he wore the night he took her life.
Is he going to kill me too?
The weight of that thought settles in my chest like a boulder, and my body starts to tremble. I close my eyes for a split second, composing myself. Do not let them see my fear. They like fear. If he kills me, my stranger will likely starve to death. If he kills me, they could find him and hurt him in ways that would have him praying for hunger to take him out instead.
“Rise,” Father commands, and I do as instructed, pushing myself to my feet. I don’t see that I have any choice in the matter. My hands are still clasped between his larger ones, and the men to my side distance themselves, giving Father and me some space. Thank the skies for small miracles. “Let's give our guests a warm welcome, Child,” Father says, pulling me towards the cave wall. This is where he likes to begin our games.
Are they going to watch Father and I play together like Ursa does?
No, Father wouldn’t allow that to happen.
Father reaches for my shoulders and then presses me back against the stone, “Deacon Falon, will you do the honors of removing this whore’s filthy dress?”
No.
He can't let them do that? I want to tell them not to touch me. I want them to leave me alone and let me sleep. They can keep their food.
I'm not hungry anymore.
The man, Deacon Falon, strides over. His tall, dark frame towers over me as he reaches for the hem of my dress and lifts it over my head. His eyes rake over my body, focusing on the wounds on my side, then the place between my legs. I look away. I don't want to see his face, but I can feel their eyes on me as Father closes the gap between us, giving me little time to process the others' scrutiny.
Without having to think about it, I raise my arms and hold them out to each side of me, muscle memory taking over. He takes my wrist and locks a shackle around it, then moves to the other, fastening it with a clink that echoes around us. He gestures to the other man, Jeremy, I think, who then steps out from the shadows and stands at Deacon Falon’s side. The flames from the candles flicker in his dark, hungry eyes, and I look away as my lips threaten to betray me with a tremble. I bite down on my tongue to keep myself from revealing any more of me than they are no doubt bound to take.
“Chain her legs,” Father instructs, and Jeremy drops to one knee, shackling my left ankle, and then my right, his eyes never leaving my cunt.
I can feel his heavy breaths on my skin, and I bite down even harder on my tongue. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth as I hold back a sob.
How could father let this happen?
I thought he loved me.
I know he isn't perfect and sometimes does bad things, but so do I.
“Feast, gentleman. Do with her what you wish. Fill her with your seed, and don't waste a single drop,” Father orders, then steps away.
He can't be serious.
Wait, he isn’t going to leave me here alone with them, is he?
I stare pleadingly into his cold, obsidian eyes. Silently begging him not to do this. But the corner of his mouth tips to a half smile, and my stomach sinks as a wave of nausea floods me.
