Page 25 of Their Blood Rite

All I am turns ice cold as I hear his approaching footsteps.

The world seems to shrink away, desperate to get as far from me as possible, not wanting to witness what’s to come.

The first blow is always the worst. He hits hard, striking my back with all his strength. I can breathe again, and the sharp sting has me screaming.

The second blow comes quickly after, making my toes curl and bile rise in my throat. The third goes low, straight across my lower back. Tears soak my cheeks as I open my mouth in an empty scream. I won’t allow any more noise to come from me.

That only seems to anger him more.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

I feel nothing but heat. Searing heat to my bones. I hear nothing but that fucking belt crashing into me. He keeps it above my clothes, no doubt wanting to avoid cutting me.

It takes me a moment to realise he’s done. I stay there, my sweat and tear-streaked face hidden from view as he replaces his belt.

Shaking all over, I pull myself up. My skin feels like it’s tearing with every bit of movement. I take the wine. My hand shakes as I lift it to my lips. It spills a little past my fingers as I drink it down.

If I don’t, I won’t be able to breathe again. Not since he used his weapon. His trigger. His command over me.

I lower the cup to the table and face my father. His command is complete. My body is my own again.

‘Now get ready. Am I understood?’

‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘You are understood, Father.’

He leaves the room without another word, slamming the door shut behind him.

I sit and watch the grandfather clock mark my final hours. My legs have lost all feeling as I sit on my knees, and my neck is stiff from staring upwards at the clockface.

Each tick and every tock is slow. The wine has made everything distant, like I’m watching a slow-motion dream.

My back aches, but not as much as it should. No one will know I’m hurt but me. I hardly ever bruise or scar. My father said that whatever earth magic healed me as a baby made my skin impossible to mark.

So his beatings go unknown. Unreported. How can I accuse him of anything when he never leaves a mark?

The Grandfather clock chimes, signalling that the eleventh hour has arrived.

The key in my bedroom door unlocks before its last chime, and my Father opens it wide.

He’s dressed in his best suit, looking very sophisticated and authoritative. The golden eagle on his cane has been polished, making it shine. His cufflinks glint in the candlelight. And his cold eyes attempt a comforting glance my way.

He makes no effort to help me stand. Once up, I face him.

I’m just as he wanted. My silver hair is up in loose curls, with a few delicate stands falling over my shoulder. The dress is on, showing my naked body beneath for all to see. No shoes. Light make-up. And his necklace around my neck.

‘Ready?’ he says. It comes out as a question, but I know it’s not.

He’s telling me I’m ready.

Like it or not.

I. Am. Ready.

He steps aside, clearing the doorway for me, and stands silent as I pass.

Making my way through the house is painfully silent. All I hear is his cane tapping on the floor behind me. My dress offers the slightest swish as I move, but my heart is hammering in my ears, almost deafening me.

I walk through the open front door.

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