Page 15 of Depravity

She crouches down, getting right into my face, as if that will help. “Use your words. Spit it out.”

I hate the way she torments me; I hate the way she revels in the fact that my speech is fucked.

“He wanted to know about you.” I force the words out. Force the lie.

She pauses, tilting her head, narrowing her eyes looking more snakelike. “What?”

She’s going to hurt me no matter what I say now, so I might as well try and limit the damage.

“He, he wanted, to, to know what you like.” Maybe it helps that my sentence is rambled. Maybe that helps hide the lie.

She blinks like she expected me to say anything but that. “He wanted to know what I like?” Her entire face changes, and she steps back as the biggest grin stretches from ear to ear. “But why would he ask you?” She sneers.

I shake my head, pretending to be as confused as she is.

She steps back and starts pacing the corridor. “Maybe he is realising, maybe he is accepting this.”

Could I be this lucky? Could it really be this easy to trick her?

Her eyes snap back to me, and it’s all I can do not to cower.

“Get back to your room.” She spits. “I told you I didn’t want to see you this week.” Her boot jabs at me as I scramble up and I’m gone, down the hall as fast as my legs will go.

It’s evening. Quinn, myself and a few of his buddies are in the smoking room, having a drink. I’m not sure why he invited them here, they’ve barely said a word to me, but they do keep shooting glances my way like I’m some sort of celebrity.

Now that the ladies have retired, I can relax. I can breathe, and I can think.

Giselle was especially clingy tonight.

And as usual, my little doll was a no-show.

I narrow my eyes, taking a long sip of whiskey. I’m starting to think it’s intentional, that they’re keeping her out of sight for a reason. Do they think I’m offended by her? She’s technically a bastard, but she is also a Monclere. Besides, she’s beautifulenough to not give a fuck about who her parents were or how she was conceived.

It turns out she has a speech impediment. That she wasn’t just stuttering through fear. It’s endearing, poor little thing.

There’s a timid knock at the door. I look up, foolishly hoping that this might be here, only it’s Paige. She glances about, looking more than a little uncomfortable and shuffles in like she knows she’s in trouble, and she’d do anything to get out of it.

Quinn fixes his gaze on her, before letting out a long, frustrated sigh. “You were late for dinner again, wife,” He says.

She bows her head, nodding quickly.

“What sort of impression do you think that leaves on my guests?” He asks, gesturing to me and his two friends.

In truth, I hadn’t noticed she was any later than the rest of us, but then Giselle was all over me like a rash, so I was rather preoccupied.

“I’m sorry,” She whispers. “I’ll do better, husband,”

“Yes, you will,” He says, sounding like he intends to drive that point home.

He gets up, strutting towards her and she visibly shrinks like she’s trying to make herself so small. Clearly, he’s not opposed to getting his hands dirty at home, is he? But then, most of us aren’t. We’re brought up to understand that as men, we are the dominant ones, the gender that matters. Women are only good for one thing, and oftentimes, you’ll find a slave is far more satisfying than a wife can be.

“My guests are upset,” Quinn states. “You need to make it up to them. You need to show them that you’re a good hostess, a good wife…”

He tears start falling down her cheeks, but she doesn’t make a sound as he reaches down and rips the delicate fabric right off her body.

My eyes widen and I sit up, realising what this is.

Her breasts are small, barely worth a bra – not that she’s wearing one. She’s skinny too, like she could do with a good meal. But that’s not what gets my attention; from where I’m sat, I can see her back, I can see her arse. And across her skin are so many stripes, so many scars from where she’s clearly been whipped.

---