Page 35 of Depravity

I look up, feeling like all that amusement is now gone, blood is suddenly pumping so fast through my body. “Nothing to concern yourself with,” I manage to grit out before I’m grabbing my jacket.

“Where are you going?” He calls after me.

“Home.” I reply. Home, to teach my erstwhile wife a lesson.

It’s stupid to do it.

I know it is, but I can’t just sit here and wait for him to come back. For him to spurt more lies, more filth, and for him to fuck me again.

I have to try. I have tokeeptrying.

I refuse to just roll over and become what he wants me to be; docile, compliant.

The door creaks as I open it. It’s heavy, must be made of solid oak. Being twice the height of a normal one, it takes almost all my strength to get the damned thing open.

Half of me is surprised it opens. I expected him to lock me in, to keep me contained. What does that say about his home? Is it so secure that he doesn’t care where I wander because he knowsI can’t get out? I bury that thought, stifle it. Thinking like that won’t help, thinking like that won’t get me out of this shit.

I peer out into the space beyond and see a corridor; a hall that is so wide that it must span the size of most people’s homes.

This house is nothing like the modern penthouse. The grandeur here is old money, old power. Every surface drips with history and wealth—ornate wallpaper, gilded mirrors, priceless artwork. It's the kind of place that makes you feel small, insignificant. Oh, I knew the Blake’s were filthy rich. I knew their family legacy predates even our own, but to see this level of grandeur, to see the history practically laid before me makes my heart stop.

How can you fight someone who has this level of wealth, this level of power? No wonder my grandfather was so anxious to overlook Conrad’s indiscretions and bind our name with theirs.

He’s a Reaper.

The thought sends a jolt of fear through me. As if I’m not petrified enough.

According to the rumours he may not have any notable kills to his name, any notable catches, but that doesn’t negate what he is. What he is capable of. It was probably a walk in the park to carry me out of my home, to disappear into the night, to vanish like a phantom.

Do my family even realise I’m gone? Surely, they must have noticed by now? They must have realised I haven’t eaten anything, haven’t left my room. I don’t even know what day of the week it is. How much school have I missed?

Would they be rejoicing at my absence? Would they even care?

I think of my aunt, of what she did, how she wrapped me up and gave me away like a present. I think about the fact that she watched as Conrad raped me, she got off on it. The tears streamdown my face before I can stop them. But they’re not sad tears, not ones of pain.

No, these tears are full of anger, full of venom.

I want to make that bitch pay. I want to make her suffer. She has made my life a living hell from the moment I stepped into that house, and why? Because I look like the sister she was so jealous of? Because I reminded her of the one person she could never compare to in my grandfather’s eyes?

She’s a petty, nasty bitch, and I’m going to make her suffer just as much as she has made me.

I clench my fists, hardening my resolve. I can only achieve that if I’m not shackled to my new husband, if I’m not essentially chained to his bed.

I need to get out of here. I need to get as far away from all these people as I can.

My heart pounds against my ribs as I take one tentative step after another. The plush carpet muffles my footsteps, but I still flinch at every tiny creak of the ancient floorboards beneath.

The corridor stretches out before me, lined with portraits of what must be generations of Blake’s. Their eyes seem to follow my movements, judging me, condemning me. I try not to look at them directly. I don't want to see the family resemblance, nor do I want to be reminded of the man who now owns me.

I pause at the top of a sweeping staircase, gripping the polished banister. Still no signs of life. No guards, no maids, nothing.

Could it really be this easy? Has Conrad made a mistake in leaving me alone here?

My fingers brush against the wedding ring he forced onto my hand. The metal feels like it's burning my skin. I want to rip it off, throw it away, but I know better. I need to be smart about this.

The main hall below is cavernous, with a black and white marble floor that reminds me of a chessboard. Sunlight streams through tall windows, catching on crystal chandeliers and sending prismatic patterns dancing across the walls. In any other circumstance, I might have found it beautiful. Now it just feels like another gilded cage.

I descend the stairs as quietly as possible, constantly looking over my shoulder, but I don’t see anyone. Not a damn soul, it’s unnerving. Creepy even. A house like this, a place this big must have an army of staff to cook, clean and maintain it. This has to be a trap, right? Conrad wouldn't just leave me here unguarded. He's too controlling, too possessive for that.

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