Page 33 of Decimation

“Good,” he says, his voice low and guttural. “Now, strip.”

My breath catches in my throat, a silent, hitching plea. I don’t hesitate. I rise to my feet, my hands trembling as I reach for the ties of my dress. The fabric falls to the floor, pooling around my ankles in the puddle of blood that is gathering there. I stand before him, exposed and vulnerable. I feel no shame, because shame requires a self to feel it, and I have given mine away. This is what he wants, and I will give it to him willingly. Just like always and a small, dying voice whispers, willingly, or just inevitably?

He steps closer, his eyes raking over me not with desire, but with the cold appraisal of a butcher. His aura pulses, mingling with a darker, more primal hue, a bruise-purple black that swallows the gold. When he grabs me, it’s rough, violent. His hands are hot against my skin, branding irons. His aura envelops me like a storm, and I am drowning in it.

He pushes me onto the bed, and I don’t resist. I let him use me, let him hurt me.

His hands are cruel, his movements brutal, but I don’t cry out. I bite my lip until it bleeds, and I reason that this is how it’s supposed to be. This is how he shows his love.

His breath is hot against my neck, his body pressing into mine with a force that leaves me breathless, not with passion but with the sheer, crushing weight of him. His aura engulfs me, swirling in a frenzy that mirrors his movements. I feel every thrust as an invasion, every touch as a claim staked on territory that was never mine. His hands grip my hips, leaving bruises that will bloom purple and yellow, a secret garden of pain I will tend in the dark.

His lips find mine, biting and claiming and I surrender completely, because surrender is the only option when you have already been conquered.

I kiss him back with a desperation that tastes like goodbye. Goodbye to the girl I was, goodbye to the hope of a love that doesn’t leave scars.

I am his, body and soul.

And my soul is a bruised, bleeding thing, curled in a corner of my body, watching.

He pulls away for a moment, his eyes dark with a desire that is terrifying in its impersonality. “You are mine,” he growls, his voice thick with possession.

“Yes, Prophet,” I gasp, my body trembling with a need that is not pleasure but a desperate, clawing need for this to mean something. “I am yours.”

He flips me onto my stomach, his hands gripping my hips as he thrusts into me again. The pain is excruciatingly sharp, a white-hot wire pulled through my core.

I moan, and it’s a sound torn from a place beyond pleasure, arching my back to meet him while his fingers dig into my flesh, anchoring me to the pain. “You belong to me,” he snarls, his voice low and guttural, a vibration I feel in my teeth.

“Yes,” I cry out, my voice breaking with a grief I cannot name. “I belong to you.”

He pulls my hair, forcing my head back, exposing the vulnerable arch of my throat. The pain is exquisite only in its totality; it leaves no room for thought, for the treacherous hope that this could be different. His hands roam my body, leaving bruises and marks that I will wear with pride, because pride is the only garment left to me.

When he finally finishes, it’s with snarl that is both a sound of triumph and annihilation. His aura explodes in a burst of red and gold and I feel it wash over me, not as a blessing but as a searing, permanent stain. That I am branded as his for all Heaven and Earth to see.

He collapses on top of me and I lie there, trembling and spent, my body a landscape of his making. But despite everything he has done, all the pain he has inflicted I am filled with a sense of fulfilment I can barely begin to understand, because it is the fulfilment of a vessel being filled, not a person being loved.

I am his bride, I am a consecrated by his touch.

I am nothing without him, I am no one.

I turn to him, my voice barely a whisper, and I speak the words that have been repeating over and over in my head.

“I love you.”

The words taste like ash and blood. I need him to be worthy of that love. I need this to be a sacred act, not a desecration. My entire world depends on it.

He cups my face, his thumb brushing over my cheek in a way that is so soft, so caring that it breaks something inside me that the violence couldn’t reach. His aura flickers, a brief flash of something darker, a serpentine coil of pure black in the gold, but I convince myself it’s a good sign.

It has to be.

If it is not, then I am not a bride, but a victim.

And I cannot survive being a victim.

He loves me, he must love me.

He sees me as more than the others. I am special, chosen, better than the rest of his wives.

Maybe I’m silly, but I let my heart swell with hope. I glance across the room at Isaac, who has witnessed everything. His face is its usual impassive mask, like a mirror reflecting nothing back. But in his stillness, I see for a fleeting second not indifference but a deep, unutterable pity. It is the most horrifying thing I have ever seen. Because if Isaac, who knows our prophet’s ways and he pities me, then my hope is a lie - I am not beloved at all. I am just the next one.