Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“What are you… How…” I can’t form the words. My heart has dropped to my stomach, the blood drained from my face.
It’s my mother’s ring.
“Pretty, isn’t it? Simple. She liked it,” he says.
“How do you have it?” I manage to ask.
“I have my ways. Bet you thought it was lost in the fire. I wouldn’t let that happen. Now, I won’t kneel to ask because I’m not asking, Allegra.”
My focus moves from the ring to his face.
“You’ll be my wife. It’s the cleanest, simplest way. Oh, and it’s the only way you get to stay alive.”
Her blood still stains the ring. I try to force the image of it on her hand out of my mind. Her hand that was missing four of its fingers already.
I think about what they did to her. How they tortured her. I try to draw strength from my anger because if I don’t get angry, I’m going to cower and die.
“I’d rather die than help you take over my family. My family that you murdered.”
“So dramatic. Like I said, I’m not asking.” He puts the ring back in his pocket. I exhale, grateful it’s out of sight. He walks toward the table at the far end of the room. A pristine white silk cloth has been laid over something. Was it here when I first got here? I didn’t notice it.
Malek dramatically sweeps the cloth away, but he’s standing between me and whatever it is he’s uncovered so I can’t see it.
“No, not asking,” he says, head bowed to look at what was under the cloth. My stomach tightens and my heart thuds against my chest in anticipation because if he could get her ring, what else does he have? What other horror? “Do you know what else I salvaged, Allegra? Before your father could destroy it?”
I twist against the iron grip of the soldier at my back as Malek begins to turn because I can see the edges of the thing behind him, and I do know what he salvaged. I know.
“I wasn’t sure if it wouldn’t come in handy.”
He turns fully facing me. My vision starts to blur. Because I don’t look at the thing he’s holding. Not yet. My eyes are locked on what’s behind him.
The butcher’s block. Thick, heavy wood stained a red so dark it looks black.
My mother’s blood.
My blood.
My mouth is dry. I lick my lips, feeling myself tremble when he’s standing a few inches from me, holding that butcher knife between us. Nothing special. Old. The handle worn in places. The blade though, sharp as can be.
I’m shaking.
A good little victim.
A godsend one of the soldiers had said. It goes quicker when it’s sharp.
What godsend when they’re chopping off one finger at a time?
Less messy, he’d said.
No. Still messy. Still so fucking messy.
“You remember it! I’m glad.”
I blink, focus my gaze on him, not the knife. Not the memories that come with it. Not the way the nub of my finger begins to ache, as if it, too, remembers and is afraid. Because I am afraid.
“What the hell do you want?” I scream, my voice high as terror takes root inside me.
“I just told you. Your hand. In marriage of course,” he adds, casually playing with the butcher’s knife between us. “You have an hour to think it over. Say yes, and you’ll be just fine. Or say no and we’ll have some fun first, because it’s a matter of when, not if, Allegra. We’ll start with your right hand. So it matches your left.”
I want to throw up. I wish I could. But with a jerk of his chin, he orders Rami to take me away and Rami drags me back down those stairs. I fight him with all I have, but he’s too strong and when we get into the cell, he presses me against the wall. He grips my throat with one hand and curls the filthy fingers of his other hand between my legs. He grins, his dead eyes on mine.
“Your father was a piece of shit,” he says, his breath hot on my face. “Your brother too. And that bastard upstairs, he’s not different. I could get you out. It’d be easy.”
I search his eyes, my heart pounding, his hand tight around my throat. But it’s the hand between my legs that terrifies me.
“I’d just need a little show of faith,” he says, pushing his fingers inside me. He kisses my cheek with his foul mouth. “Just a little something,” he whispers wetly into my ear.
He draws back to look at me, leering. My stomach turns. My hands are on his forearms, trying to push him away, which is impossible.
“What do you say?”
I don’t answer with words. I spit on him instead. Spit right in his face. Because I’d rather die.
He flinches like he’s been slapped, but at least it gets the hand that’s between my legs off. He wipes away the spit, steps back, one corner of his mouth curving upward.