Page 79 of Cedar Edge
Three weeks and I’ve come to accept that they are well and truly dead.
And three weeks for Royce and his associates to get comfortable with me again.
My hands are shockingly steady as I prepare their meals. The meat itself is done perfectly, just the right amount of juice oozing from the tender piece center on the plate. My body is calm and mind determined as I slowly, and deliberately, create the perfect plate for each. Each one is the same, mushroom sauce on top of the steak with a sprinkle of parsley. I know I’m dissociating, at least a little bit, because my movements feel doll-like. As if someone else has taken control of my body and is moving me through the dinner preparation.
Turning my attention back to the final plate I add a bed of salad before placing the meat atop it followed by the rest of garnishing. I take a deep breath looking down at my work and subsequently the nine other plates before quickly washing my hands, three times, up to the elbows. When I’m convinced they are sufficiently clean I step back from the sink, methodically drying them.
Smoothing my hair back I take another deep breath as I untie the apron around my waist, neatly folding it and placing it back in the drawer it belongs. I had taken great care to cover the bruises that still decorated my jaw and throat, the marks healing slowly. No one could see what Royce had done. Everything must be perfect tonight. Including my own performance. It all must be exactly how Royce demands. Anything less is unacceptable.
I can hear the gathering of men outside in the large dining room, and instead of nerves all I feel is calm. My tall, black heels click across the marble floor as I load up the plates onto the dinner cart and mechanically walk out of the kitchen.
Royce sits at the head of the table, his dark hair slicked back and a pleased look painted on his face. Tonight he’s wearing a white button up, half undone exposing the golden skin just under. His fingers drum against the wood with an edge of impatience but my steps remain steady and sure as I approach. His greedy eyes light up with delight at the dress I chose, the white fabric hugging my hips before it cuts off right across my upper thighs. The top swoops down showing just enough cleavage that it could be considered distracting.
“You’ve got quiet the wife there Royce.” One of the men chuckles. His own hair is balding and he looks like he is pretending to be ten years younger than he really is. His beady eyes track me enough to show just how new he is. “You ever feel like sharing, let me know.”
I keep my face neutral as I set plates down, some of the men shifting nervously knowing full well how deep Royce’s possession of me goes. I chance a glance at Royce, his fist clutched around the stem of his wine glass before his body relaxes and a light chuckle pours from his lips.
“Thea and I might just take you up on that, recently she’s expressed some interest in being passed around.” Silence echoes around the table at Royce’s words, as if the whole is holding a collective breath to see which way this goes. There is an unmistakable edge of violence in his tone.
I continue to pass out the dinner plates until finally coming to place the final one in front of Royce. When I go to stand back up Royce grips my wrist hard enough to almost have me wincing but I swallow back the pain, keeping my face neutral, if almost pleasant.
“Isn’t that right little doll?” He drolls. His fingers are now loosening as they caress my skin. I think I should feel disgusted by his touch right now but I feel nothing outside of that calm, steady, determination.
“Yes Master. Whatever you need from me.” I manage the words in a soft whisper before I’m gently removing myself from his touch and stepping backwards. Tucking my hands behind my back, head hanging and eyes glued to the ornate rug under the table Royce pauses a beat before I hear a satisfied grunt and then the sounds of his knife and fork hitting the plate.
The other men start to eat, conversation slowly resuming as the tension bleeds away from the room. I pick up pieces of their conversations and each word sends ripples of disgust through me. Every single person at this table has their fingers in something illegal, and has contributed to the suffering of others.
“Had a bitch a few weeks ago that just wouldn’t break,” One of them says with a mouth full of steak. “Had to teach her alesson. She stopped acting out real quick when she found herself in bed with pieces of another one of my girls.”
Laughter erupts around the table, each person telling similar stories.
“I’m thinking Thea here needs to learn a few lessons of her own," Royce cuts in with a mouth full of roast. The sound of him chewing makes my stomach roll. “I’m afraid I’ve been too lenient on her.” I keep my eyes trained to the floor, refusing to fall for whatever he’s trying to do.
A throat clearing almost has me looking at the man who made the sound. “I’m available for your service.” The voice is enough to give away who it is, one of Royce’s personal favorites to bring to parties. And one who enjoys hurting others far too much. “As you know I’m very well versed in punishment and breaking any willful submissives.”
I want to scream that calling the individuals he ruins submissives is a joke and makes a mockery of the term.
Royce chuckles. “That you are James. That you are. What do you think, Thea? Should I let James teach you some manners?”
“Yes Master.” I respond blandly, forcing myself to stay in the calm, unattached place. I hear more of Royce devouring his food before his wine glass clinks onto the table.
“That’s it? Just yes Master? No questions?” His tone screams of annoyance that I’m not fighting back. He wants the fire I had when he dragged me from Law on that snowy day. But that fire is gone, extinguished and laying in embers.
“I’m yours to do with as you please.” The words almost catch on my tongue but I let myself slip further into the dissociation, further away from anything that might ignite feelings in my body. He doesn’t say anything after that, and while I know, deep in my heart and soul, that silence from Royce is dangerous, I can't bring myself to care or worry.
Instead I focus on the countdown I have playing in my mind, over and over again. Until I hear the first startled exclamation followed by multiple men coughing. My eyes finally leave the floor and gaze up at the monster that wanted to break me. The man is peppered in sweat and gaping like a fish. His eyes shine with rage as my lips spread into a small smile.
I cock my head to the side, watching in fascination. “Did you know that Hemlock Water can cause muteness? I actually didn’t know that, not until recently anyway. I knew it was incredibly deadly, sure, but not that it could render you mute. And you know, I thought to myself what poetic justice this is. Stealing the voice from the man who tried to steal mine for so long.”
I glance around the rest of the room at the rest of the disgusting men at the table, each in varying forms of distress. “False Parsley is also rather fascinating in the way it causes paralysis. And the mushrooms you’ve all eaten? Well lets just say those aren’t the kind to be very forgiving.”
My body sways to the imaginary music in the air as I walk around the table, looking each one of them in the eyes. I want them to know it was me who killed them, the little doll they thought was harmless. I relish in the shock and fear and anger in their eyes. When I land myself next to Royce my eyes flutter closed as I tilt my head back and just enjoy this moment.
“You see Royce, you always underestimated me. You thought because I was, well this,” Opening my eyes, I gesture down my body. “That I wasn’t dangerous. Honestly, for a very long time you had me believing it too.” I let out a laugh that sounds on edge and just shy of unhinged before I manage to wrangle it back into my body. My hand drifts to the table picking up the steak knife, careful to avoid the blade lest I poison myself by accident.
For the first time I start to see that anger transform into worry as Royce starts to understand just how fucked he is. His plate still sits in front him, empty, save for one small piece ofthe roast. “I was worried for a moment, that you weren’t going to let me cook for you, but then I reminded myself how fucking arrogant you are. The great Royce Ripkins wouldn’t fear his ‘little doll’ trying to kill him.”
I smile at the fear now peppering his face as his airway closes off and death starts to drag him from this world. And as he starts to take his last, shuddering breath I step behind him, dragging his head back so I can look him in the eyes as I raise the blade to his throat.
