Page 15 of Born for Lace

Just breathe.

Folding my clothes, I lay them over my shoes. I don’t have my lace gown with me—I didn’t think I would need it—so I leave my white slip-dress and knickers on. The chill of fear pinches my nipples, drawing them through the fabric.

The Endigo man enters, and I stiffen on his bed, eyes wide with alarm, back so ridged a breeze might crack me in two. The impending moments sink in as he closes the door. And the truth churns my stomach. He is vile. I can’t pretend he isn’t anymore, and I can’t pretend I’m okay with this. I’m not. I don’t want this. I want to run.

His good eye drips down my body, a hiss leaving his cracked lips as he stares at my nipples.

“I know you must be nervous,” he says. “But I won’t harm ya.” He looks at the tea. “Drink it and take your clothes off.”

I shake my head as tears simmer behind my eyes. “I don’t take my clothes off. I leave them on.”

“Not with me.”

My blood runs cold. “That’s not how it’s done. I remain innocent of everything you do. I remain modest. Tha?—"

“I don’t ‘ave long, do I?” he spits. “Take ‘em off so I can get started with ya straight away.”

My mind screams.Run.

Panic finds me too late, crawling into my veins and scratching a pattern of terror into my soul.

The Deep Sleep is meant to be peaceful, and a Lace Girl is to be cared for and considered. I am meant to be doted on and adored. Undressed while I sleep and clothed again before I wake.

This is a mistake.

The white-haired fish-man steps toward me, and I snatch the tea. Humming the soft shanty my Ward used to, I find the sound a tiny comfort as I sip— No. No sugar, no care, no clothes, get it done!

I throw the contents into my throat, rip my slip over my head, and drop backward on his bed.

Staring at the uneven stone ceiling, I place my hands on my stomach, feeling my abdomen tremble beneath my fingertips.

I grit my teeth.

I will not cry.

It'll be over soon.

And I’ll never know.

Swallowing over a ball of fear, I turn my head and rest my cheek on the rancid pillow, staring at a dull, rusty appliance on the bloody sink. It is shaped like the roof of a house with curved scales like a fish.

I blink my heavy lashes.

The tea works fast.

In the corner of my eyes, the man clumsily removes his clothes, so I train my gaze on the shiny scales that curve upward along the implement.

No, not scales.

Small blades.

It is a grater.

* * *

I come to, my mind in a fog. I can feel my chest rise and fall. Feel the dead weight in my legs. Heavy thighs. Sleep is clinging to my muscles.

I feel as though I’m in a dark dream, but it is entirely real, tactile and noisy, except for my vision which crinkles shapes and smudges detail.

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