Page 25 of Fangs

Cain gestures for me to stand. I rise on unsteady legs, my knees aching from the stone floor. He examines me, his gaze clinical, detached.

“Boring,” one of the other masters says, and I can’t remember his name. “That dress. She should take it off.”

My hands clench at my sides. I don’t move.

“Take it off,” another commands.

I stay still. My pulse hammers so hard I’m certain Cain can feel it through the leash.

I stand frozen, my jaw tight.

Cain rises from his throne. He steps toward me, and I brace for the punishment. Instead, he leans in, his voice soft. “You did well.”

I blink.

“Only when your own Master commands do you obey.” He tilts his head, a flicker of approval in his eyes. “But I agree with them. It would be more fun with you naked.”

His fingers find the first button of my dress. He works it loose, then the second.

My breath catches in my throat.

A sudden rush of wings explodes through the high windows. Bats—dozens of them—pour through the windows like a flood of living shadow.

Girls scream. Chairs scrape backward. Servants shout. The air fills with frantic motion, the sharp scent of panic, and the dry rustle of leathery wings.

The bats swarm, and I stand frozen, watching them wheel and dive. One of them veers toward me. Its wings beat against my face, and I flinch, raising my arms to protect myself.

Cain unclips the leash in one smooth motion. His attention snapping to the swirling mass of wings.

“To your rooms!” he barks at the servants. “All of you! Now.”

Servants herd the girls toward the exits in a tangle of skirts and frightened voices. I’m swept along with them, the unfinished button at my throat the only physical evidence of what almost happened. My legs feel unsteady. The phantom weight of the collar still lingers against my skin.

The heavy doors close behind us, sealing the chaos inside the hall, but in the brief moment before the corridor takes me, I glance back through the narrowing gap.

A tall figure stands in the deepest shadow near the far wall, watching me leave.

Forbidden Name

The servants lock me in my room like a disobedient child.

I stand in the center of the space, chest heaving. My skin still crawls from the memory of leather tight around my throat. The collar is gone, yet its weight remains, pressing against every breath.

The room stretches wider than I first noticed. A vanity waits against the far wall, crowded with brushes, combs, and glass bottles of perfumed oil. A wardrobe stands open, with silks, velvets, and laces in shades I have never worn. I cross the floor. A writing desk holds parchment and ink. Beside it lies a single book. My fingers trace the cover. Black leather. A red circle stamped into the surface, its center hollow. I open it.

The Rules of the Crimson Order’s Pets

My stomach clenches. Pets. That is the word they use. That is what I have become.

I flip the pages. Rules about behavior. Rules about dress. Rules about speech, touch, when to kneel, when to rise. The list never ends. Each line another chain.

I shut the book and push it aside.

Other things sit on the desk. A small set of paints and a roll of canvas. Tools meant to busy my hands and silence my thoughts.

But no books. No stories. Nothing to feed the part of me that craves escape.

I twirl the pencil between my fingers. Drawing would help. Writing, perhaps. Anything to drag my mind away from the dark. But my thoughts drift to my father.