Page 16 of Decimation

I try to disappear into my mind, to go somewhere else, anywhere else but the pain keeps dragging me back, anchoring me in this moment, in this horror.

He starts to pick up pace, fucking me harder, grinding my body against the hardwood and I can feel the splinters starting to dig into my flesh.

“Fuck,” He groans, “Fuck, you’ve got a tight little cunt.”

He doesn’t sound like a prophet now, does he? He doesn’t sound like anything other than a monster.

When he finally finishes, the sound he makes is so satisfied. He’s pleased with himself, pleased that he’s ruined me. He pulls out, and I feel something warm and wet between my thighs that I know is my blood mixed with him.

I don’t want to look, I don’t mean to, but my eyes latch onto him, his body, the part of him that is bloodied and somehow still hard.

“There,” he says, staring down, examining his cock like this was some sort of experiment. “That wasn’t so difficult, now was it?”

Isaac is standing beside him, staring at me, staring at where I’m exposed, where I’m still bleeding.

The shame of it crashes over me in waves. I curl into myself, trying to cover my nakedness with shaking hands.

I can’t speak, can’t form words.

I just lie there on the floor, trembling and bleeding and broken.

He picks up his clothes, making himself presentable again like nothing has happened, like he hasn’t just destroyed something fundamental inside me.

“You’ll learn,” he says as he tightens his belt. “This is your purpose now. Your calling. God chose you over your dead sister. The sooner you accept that, the easier things will be.”

God, what did Cass go through, what did she endure, and what horrors will I now suffer?

“I’ll have food in the hall,” He continues, but not to me, to Isaac. “Have your turn, then come find me. We’ll need to adjust the schedule, speed things up now that we only have a few months before the ritual…”

I can’t process those words. I can’t process anything. All I can do is stare at Isaac, at the colours swirling around him. They’re muted, dull, like he’s hiding something.

Oh god, he’s going to do it too, isn’t he? He’s going to hurt me.

I try to scramble back, to get away but my body collides with the bedframe and he’s on me, pinning me down, taking what he wants and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

Mahogany panels line the walls of the Senate chamber, dark and oppressive, while the vaulted ceiling seems designed to make every voice echo with false importance.

I’ve sat through these meetings since I was a teenager, watching my father command this room with the kind of authority that made grown men tremble. Now, I watch my brother fumble through it like a child playing dress-up.

Konstantine sits at the head of the table, exactly where he’s supposed to be. The Grand Master’s chair, carved from a single piece of oak, inlaid with gold leaf that catches the light from the chandeliers overhead. He looks the part, I’ll give him that. Perfectly tailored suit, hair styled just right, that easy smile that’s supposed to put everyone at ease.

But beside him sits Ines.

She has no fucking reason to be here. None.

Women aren’t even permitted in this holiest of chambers, so what the fuck is she doing here? This is a Senate meeting, reserved for the inner circle of the Brethren, for men who’ve earned their place through blood and sacrifice and years of service. She’s not a member. She doesn’t get a vote yet there she sits, perched in a chair that was dragged in specifically for her, positioned so close to Konstantine that they might as well be sharing his seat.

I force myself to remain still, to keep my expression neutral as Senator Blackwood drones on about territorial disputes in the Far East. My fingers drum against the armrest of my chair, a nervous habit I’ve never been able to break, and I make myself stop.

I can’t show weakness here.

I can’t show irritation either, even though it’s building in my chest like a pressure cooker about to blow.

Blackwood finishes his report and looks to Konstantine for direction. This should be simple, we’ve dealt with territorial disputes a hundred times before. The protocol is clear, the response already predetermined. All Konstantine has to do is give the order.

Instead, he hesitates.

His eyes flick sideways to Ines, so quick that most of the room probably doesn’t catch it, but I do. I see the way he’s seeking her approval, her guidance, like he can’t make a single fucking decision without her blessing.