Page 9 of Fangs

They are preparing me. They are making me beautiful. For them.

The thought should disgust me. It does. Yet beneath the disgust a darker current stirs…Unwelcome relief.

The women help me undress. Their touch stays impersonal and efficient. I want to tell them I can manage alone, but the words die in my throat. They are already unlacing my dress, guiding me toward the bath.

The water is perfect. Hot enough to soothe every aching muscle. Fragrant enough to erase the stench of the carriage. I sink into it and let the heat claim my bones. For one brief, treacherous moment I forget where I am.

Then I look at the maids. They stand motionless by the door, faces blank.

“Are you going to just stand there?”

They nod.

“Can I have some privacy?”

No response. Only those placid, empty smiles.

I sink lower until the water covers my mouth.

This is what they want. To strip away every scrap of privacy, every shred of dignity.

Well. They can’t have my thoughts. They can’t take my anger.

I will hold onto both until they burn.

The maids dress me in a gown of deep emerald silk. The fabric whispers against my skin like a lover’s caress. They brush my hair until it gleams, twist it into an elaborate arrangement that makes my neck ache, and dust a light powder across my cheeks.

They lead me to the grand hall. I try not to gape. The room rises like a cathedral of excess. Chandeliers drip with crystals. Walls paneled in dark wood gleam like polished bone. A table stretches for what seems like miles, laden with roasted meats, glazed vegetables, breads still steaming from the oven, pastries dusted with sugar.

My traitorous stomach growls loud.

When did I last eat? Yesterday? The day before? I can’t remember.

The maids guide me to a seat near the center of the table. I sink into the cushion as if it is made of clouds. Two other girls already sit nearby. One has honey-brown hair and a pinched face. The other has bright eyes and a smile that never quite reaches them.

“New girl?” the bright-eyed one asks. “I’m Jenny. This is Margaret. Everyone calls her Mag.”

I nod. My throat is too tight for words.

“Don’t be nervous.” Jenny leans in, voice dropping to a whisper. “The first night is always the worst. They’re trying to scare you. Testing your limits.”

“What do you mean?” My voice is hoarse. “Is this all a trap?”

“No. It’s not that bad…” Mag shifts in her seat. “I’ve been here three months.” Her smile sharpens. “And I’m still here. Alive.”

Her eyes dart toward the raised dais at the far end of the hall. I follow her gaze.

The Masters sit on four thrones, elevated above us like gods surveying their domain. They pretend to eat. Their plates remain untouched. Their eyes scan the room the way predators watch prey.

Jenny stays quiet for a long moment, her eyes drifting over the crowd before settling on the men across the hall.

“The one on the left—the blond with the sharp jawline—that’s Lord Peter,” she whispers, leaning closer, her breath brushing my ear. I follow her gaze, taking in his icy composure. He feels cold and distant, as if the warmth of the room cuts off a foot before it ever reaches him.

“Next to him is Lord Francis. The one with gray at his temples.” Mag continues, her fingers twisting nervously in her dress.

I recognize him. He was the first one who spoke to me when I arrived.

Her gaze shifts to the man sitting at the center, her eyes narrowing.