Page 41 of The Road to Ruined

"Their fucking egos—always making them think they're bigger, smarter, and more powerful than they are."

"What about her? Why me?"

"Just watch, Teagan. Our job here is to watch or clean up messes. Don't ask any more questions."

A man wearing a suit and a gold mask moves to a podium at the front of the room, and from the side doors, more things like Bone Saw carry long bench seats into the room, lining them in front of the podium and that marble slab. Without instruction, the attendees begin filing into the pews. They all pull the same gold masks over their faces and the man at the front of the room begins to read from an old leatherbound book.

It's Latin. I don't know any Latin. My mind latches onto a few words I recognize in Spanish, like "blood" and "moon." Other than that, I have no fucking clue what's going on.

"What are they saying?" I whisper.

"It doesn't really matter," he says. "Declan told you about the blood, right? They're basically asserting their position and role in higher society, the power in the blood and death."

An elderly man moves to the front of the room, standing beside the podium while the other reads. A few seconds later, a woman from the crowd approaches him carrying a velvet cushion with a knife resting on top.

Bone Saw leans over me in the doorway, leaning in close to my ear, and says softly, "He's terminally ill, which means he's weak and worthless. When this happens to members of the organization, especially the higher-ups, the greatest thing they can do for their legacy is take their own life."

The old man grabs the knife from the pillow and holds it to his throat, and when the man reading from the book pauses, he drags it across his neck.

Those gathered in front of him begin chanting as soon as the knife pierces his skin.

He should have gone deeper, but it'll do the trick. Still, he stays conscious and on his feet for at least a full minute, choking on blood as it gushes from the wound, before dropping to the ground.

They stop once the body on the floor stills. Two masked men come out, roll him into a sheet, and carry him from the room while the crowd applauds.

"They won't drink his blood," Bone Saw says. "There's no power in it, but there was power in the sacrifice, and his descendants will be rewarded for it. That wouldn't be the case if he chose to die slowly at home."

"Does he go in a barrel, too?"

"No. His body will go home with his family, and they'll tell everyone he succumbed to his illness peacefully in his sleep. Keep watching…"

Once the applause dies down, the man at the podium continues reading, and after a few minutes, two more masked men drag a young girl down the aisle, kicking and crying as she struggles against their grip. When she finally looks up and sees the rows of people watching her through the same masks, she screams.

"No, please!" she shouts. "Please don't hurt me! Why are you doing this? Please don't do this! Please."

She loses her footing about halfway down the aisle, and, sobbing, she's dragged the rest of the way before they haul her onto that marble slab with the troughs, lying her flat on her back while holding her wrists and ankles. Without thinking about it, I latch onto Bone Saw's bicep. He quickly shrugs me off, thengrabs me by my neck and jerks my body toward him, holding me with my back against his chest.

"I didn't mean to," I manage through my constricted airway. "I forgot."

I forgot what you were for a second.

He steps backward, moving so that we're partially obscured by the doorframe into the dark hallway, and slips his hand down the front of my pants and inside my underwear, his fingers finding my clit. "You're going to like this, little monster. You better not scream when you come—you're not supposed to be a desperate little whore here, and I'm sure more than a few people in that room would love to get their hands on something like you."

As he works my clit with his fingers, the man with the book drives the first blade into her throat. Then, the two holding her down step aside, and the masked guests approach the altar. She's gagging, choking on blood while they all drive knives into her body.

And I'm watching, wriggling my hips against the gloved fingers of the man who's barely human, feeling his hard cock against my ass while he circles my clit. My pussy is soaked, the tension inside me threatening to unravel.

I shouldn't be getting off to this. I'm more fucked than I thought.

"It's just like watching people fuck, isn't it?" he asks as they begin returning to their seats.

"Yes…" I moan quietly.

"It's okay that you like it—that it makes your little pussy wet." He picks up the pace, his fingers rubbing my wet clit hard and fast. I flex my thighs and grip the doorframe beside me to keep my knees from buckling. "Go ahead and come all over my fingers while you watch her die. I'll be picturing you just like that while I tear you apart with my cock later."

"Fuck…" I whimper softly. His hand tightens around my throat, cutting off my air supply and stifling my moans as my clit pulses and my legs threaten to collapse beneath me. I let my eyes fall closed, waves of pleasure rolling through me as the group begins to chant together—again, speaking Latin—and the blood drains from her body.

Her life force. Ripe for the taking.

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