Page 9 of The Last Feast
Little drops of red-tinged water continue falling, melting into the twigs and moss as she combs her fingers through my hair. Her voice is lower as she asks, “What was your life like, rich boy?”
Is all this because she wants money?
I gained access to my inheritance when I was twelve, and my parents shipped me off to boarding school. They didn’t want to deal with me, so I paid my tuition. I paid the nanny who cared for me when the school was closed. I paid for everything, even before I got my own accounts. Paying for my freedom isn’t the issue—the most glaring problem I have is that I’mdisappointedgreed is her motivation.
“Boring,” I answer, pulling her attention away from my nakedness. “It was boring. Money just gives you a comfortable place to cry, nothing more.”
“And do you?” Dropping to her knees, she holds my jaw. “Do you cry?”
“Not anymore.”
“Would you cry for your audience?” She gestures to my reflections staring back at us. Then, slowly, painstakingly slowly, she leans forward to lick my cheek. “Or would you prefer to scream for your sins?”
She’s insane, totally insane. Maybe I am too, though, because the thought of her punishing me makes my dick twitch. I testher, wanting her to prove she’s here for me. “Do you want money?”
She gives one slow shake of her head then drops her hold on my jaw. Moving carefully, she keeps the blade on my skin as she crawls under me then pushes her feet between my knees. My thighs are starting to go numb from being forced to kneel, and the wires tighten around my ankles when she pushes my thighs further apart.
The twigs get caught in her hair, along with the crispy leaves, while my bowing body casts her in shadows, but she relaxes into the ground with her face beneath mine and her knife on my shoulder.
Fuck, she’s beautifully haunting.
My first assessment was right—she’s decay. Right now, splayed out beneath me with her face painted as a skull down to her neck, she looks like I’ve dug through dirt to uncover her. There’s no headstone for me to gain insight into her life, so I beg, “Tell me your name.”
“Guess.” She smiles.
“Sasha?” I offer a strong name.
“Nope. Hana. You nearly got it right.”
The softness doesn’t suit her. It’s a name that has many meanings—flowers, grace, radiance, hope, all the things people use to disguise things or tell themselves it’s better than it is. Lies. But she’s not hiding her true nature. She’s at home in the decay covering her features, more at home than I am in my skin.
She threads her arm around me as she shyly whispers, “What’s your name?”
I have the opportunity to reinvent myself, to become more than Auguste Aigner, so I do. I become better, a man without history as I say, “Jamie Adams.”
It’s an old professor’s name who would invite the nanny and me to his house for Christmas when he found out we werestaying in Switzerland for the break, one who was confident in who he was, accomplished, with enough family around him that there was no awkward silence around the dinner table when he brought home two strangers.
The strain of lifting my head takes its toll, and I can’t keep it up any longer when she wraps both arms around my waist. It falls, landing beside her, and I groan at the change in position. Her cunt is right fucking there. My dick yearns to be inside her, yet the fear still swirls in the back of my mind.
But she soothes me as she gently strokes my back with her knife-bearing hand, cooing, “It’s okay to cry.”
Is she a spirit? Some ghoul following me through life so she understands why I’m afraid? Or have all my carefully constructed walls crumbled in front of these mirrors because they were only an illusion to begin with?
No tears fall from my eyes. No horrifying memories play on repeat as I push my nose into her neck, hugging her with the only free parts of my body. It’s as though the bindings on my limbs have successfully restrained the thoughts that plague me.
There’s no Father holding my hand as he leads me into his office while the other children practice their hymns.
There’s no image of my parents’ disgust when I cried to them, admitting everything that happened while they were embarrassed at my emotional outburst.
“Admit your sins,” Hana whispers as she tests my spine with the tips of her nimble fingers. “I’m a merciful God, unlike the false one you know. I’ll cleanse you.”
I believe her as the drips from the leaking roof get faster.
So, I do what she wants. I admit the darkest desire that’s tormented me. “I want to know what it’s like to take a life.”
7
A GIFT
