His pudgy fingers grab my face, turning my head in his direction.
“You look tired, wife. Bored too.” He comments.
I draw in a deep breath and say nothing back. I’ve learnt now that he doesn’t want a response. He doesn’t want anything from me that proves I’m a living, breathing person.
After another agonising hour he gets to his feet, and he grabs my arm, announcing he is done for the night.
He leads me out, laughing as I stumble over various different objects that are in my way, and I swear he does it on purpose. He intentionally puts me on a path that causes me to trip over a chair, and slam into a table.
I’m quick to bite down the gasps, quick to silence the cries, even as one of his friends shouts out that I’m a stupid blind bitch now.
Gunther laughs at that. He laughs so hard, as if it’s the funniest thing he’s heard, and it takes everything I have not to scowl.
“Maybe I should have done that sooner.” He says.
He comes to an abrupt stop and, as he grips my head, I can already sense who is there. I can smell him. That recognisable hint of oud, of tobacco, of horror too.
“Shall we thank him, wife?” Gunther says. “Blake’s amendments to your body have been a great improvement indeed.”
I gulp, my stomach threatening to make me spew up all over them both.
“Say it.” Gunther barks, tightening his grip. “Thank him.”
I don’t want to do it. Who the fuck would ever thank someone for mutilating them the way Devin has me? And yet, I’m helpless, more than helpless.
Gunther is going to die. Gunther is going to be eliminated. I whisper those words in my head. I scream them so loud to try and mitigate the shame and disgust I feel but it does no good. It has no effect whatsoever.
“Thank you.” I whisper. Hating myself. Hating them, hating everything about this moment, my life, and the knowledge that I cannot do anything to stop this nightmare.
Devin
He’s twitching. Fidgeting. Giving every sign that he’s about to do something outrageous again.
I can see the looks Curtis and Mace are giving and I brace myself for whatever shit is about to happen.
We’re in the Senate. Around us, all the members are sat, sullen faced, clearly pissed off at being forcibly summoned here. For hours Gunther has been blustering off about the fact that he is God’s chosen, he is our sanctified leader, and as such, every word he utters is holy.
His spit covers the polished table in front of us as he gets louder and louder.
But enough of the Senate are arguing back. Enough are clearly sick of his shit.
“It cannot be done.” Aldric says, folding his arms. “It will cause outrage.”
“Bullshit.” Gunther replies. “What man would turn down the option of having multiple wives? Hell, we’ll even hold ceremonies, I’ll be the first, I’ll lead by example, there were what, six other girls, other Founders, I’ll marry them all. One of those bitches will give me an heir if this one fails to…” He points across at Paitlyn, at where she’s stood, still as a statue, her face a perfect mask of obedience.
I tilt my head slightly, studying her.
The doctors clearly cleaned her up after my little amendments. Her eyelids are sewn shut, but you have to really squint to realise it.
All those beautiful cuts are healing to the point that they’re now fresh scars. Livid red marks across her body. She looks magnificent. She looks more majestic than ever.
I have her eyes. I have them.
I kept them safe, kept them clean. Every night I pull the jar out and stare at my new blue diamonds.
It’s a wonder her husband never asked where they went. Stupid bastard, he cares so little for her, notices so little.
He doesn’t see what she is, he doesn’t see her for anything beyond what he can have.
