Page 31 of Echoes From the Void

He’s younger than the others Valerie usually parades through here. Maybe thirty-five. The kind of man who could have any woman he wants. The kind who prefers ones who can’t say no.

“You really are exquisite,” he says as he pulls out my chair. His fingers brush my shoulder, lingering too long on exposed bone. “Though we’ll have to work on getting some meat on these lovely bones.”

The smell of real food makes my stomach clench painfully. Steak, potatoes, wine—a feast designed to remind me how hungry I am. How dependent.

His hand settles on my knee under the table. “Shall we discuss terms?”

The steak bleeds onto fine China as he cuts it into precise bites. My own plate remains untouched—we all know this dinner isn’t really about food.

“Valerie tells me you’re special,” he says, thumb stroking circles on my knee. “That you just need the right... motivation to reach your potential.”

I stare at the candlelight, trying to ignore how his hand creeps higher. The silverware gleams, so sharp, so close. But my arms feel like lead, muscles weak from months of careful starvation.

“Tell me,” he leans closer, breath hot against my ear. “What do you think about children?”

The question makes bile rise in my throat. This isn’t just about his usual preferences then. This is about Valerie’s breeding program. About finding new ways to make me useful.

“I’m not...” my voice cracks from disuse. “I don’t...”

“Shh,” his grip tightens painfully on my thigh. “You don’t have to think about anything. That’s the beautiful part. I’ll take care of everything.”

The wine in his glass looks like blood in the candlelight. His other hand moves to my neck, fingers pressing against my pulse.

“So fragile,” he murmurs. “So... breakable.”

“Would you like to dance?” His fingers flex against my throat, not really a question. The string quartet in the corner starts playing on some silent signal.

My legs nearly give out as he pulls me to my feet. The room spins—from hunger, from fear, from the way his hands possess more than support.

“Valerie said you were a dancer,” he says, drawing me against him. His cologne is expensive, suffocating. “Show me.”

But I’m not. I never was. That was just another lie Valerie told, another way to market her “special” girls to men with specific tastes.

His hand splays across my lower back, pressing me closer. “You’re shaking,” he observes, pleased. “Like a baby bird.”

The strings swell as he spins us, my vision blurring. His grip tightens until I know there will be bruises. More marks to add to Valerie’s collection.

“I think,” his lips brush my ear, “we should continue this somewhere more private. I have... arrangements with Valerie. About special cases like you.”

Something inside me snaps.

Not my shadows—they’re still sleeping, starved quiet like the rest of me. But something older. Something that remembers how to survive.

The letter opener gleams on the table beside us—Valerie’s idea of elegant dinner decor. Sterling’s grip loosens just slightly as he moves to guide me toward the private rooms.

One moment of carelessness. One fraction of opportunity.

My fingers close around cool metal as I stumble. He catches me, laughing at my weakness. Doesn’t notice what I’ve grabbed until I’m driving it up under his ribs.

His eyes go wide with shock. Not pain, not yet. Just surprise that his fragile bird had claws.

“You—” he starts, but blood bubbles up instead of words.

I twist the blade like I’m cutting through one of his perfect steaks. My arms shake with the effort, muscles screaming from months of atrophy. But survival is stronger than weakness.

He tries to shove me away. I fall, taking him with me. We hit the polished floor together, my dress soaking up his blood like hungry silk.

“Please,” he gasps, no longer handsome, no longer powerful. Just another monster learning too late that prey can bite back.

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