Page 61 of Fangs

“Yes.” I say, the words falling from my lips against my will.

“Good pet.” He smiles, coldly. “Pack whatever you want to bring. Lady Vesper and the servants will be here soon to prepare you for the auction.”

He walks away, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.

I close the door and lean against it, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The compulsion fades, but the memory of it lingers—the violation of my own will, the helplessness of my own body betraying me.

I seek oblivion. I wrap myself in the lie, let it soothe the raw edges of my guilt.

Blake was just a dream.

I tell myself this, forcing the words through my mind like a chant. The shadows were never real. The bite, the heat, the impossible love—none of it happened.

Cain is real. Cain is here. He saved my life. He gave me his blood. He wants to help me. It is more than I could ask for.

I should be grateful.

—-

The servants arrive at midday.

Lady Vesper leads them, her silver hair pinned in its severe bun, her sharp eyes assessing me with clinical detachment. Behind her, three maids carry basins of steaming water, oils and creams, an array of tools I don’t recognize.

“Undress,” Vesper commands. “We have much to do before dusk.”

I obey. My fingers fumble with the buttons of my uniform, and the fabric falls away, pooling at my feet. I stand naked before them, my skin still bearing the faint marks of my ordeal—the bruises from Cain’s grip, the faint pink lines where his fangs pierced my throat.

Vesper’s eyes narrow. “The bite marks. Who did this to you?”

I have no words.

She lets the question go. “Fine. You’re about to be sold is not my problem anymore. We will cover them. Begin.”

The maids descend upon me like a flock of birds. They strip the remaining traces of blood from my skin, scrubbing me until my flesh is raw and pink. Hot water cascades over my body, and I let it wash away the evidence of my crimes.

Wax. They rip the hair from my legs, my underarms, the intimate places between my thighs. The pain is sharp and immediate, and I welcome it. It is something to feel besides the guilt.

They pluck my brows into perfect arches. They file my nails into smooth ovals. And paint my lips with crimson, my cheeks with rose, my eyelids with shadow that makes my eyes look huge and haunted.

The hours crawl by. I sit in silence, letting them shape me, mold me, transform me into a pet worthy of the auction block. My body is no longer mine. It is a product. A thing to be bought and sold.

Vesper produces the dress—an elaborate gown of deep crimson silk, its bodice cut low, its skirt flowing to the floor. Beneath it, a complete set of crimson lingerie. A corset that cinches my waist to an impossible narrowness. Stockings that rise to my thighs, held in place by glittering garters. High heels that force my body into an arch that emphasizes every curve.

“Don’t be fooled,” Vesper says, her voice clipped. “They will begin to strip you. The longer it takes to undress you, the more bits you have for them to remove. The more bits, the higher the bids.”

The lingerie is a weapon. A way to prolong the inevitable.

I look at myself in the mirror, and I feel nothing. No fear. No hope. No desire. Just a vast, hollow emptiness where my heart used to be.

The woman who stares back at me is a stranger. A pet to be sold.

Auction

The blindfold crushes against my eyes. Cold iron bites into my wrists, the handcuffs cinched tight enough to grind bone. My heels click against stone as invisible hands guide me forward, the sound swallowed by the murmur of voices that swells around me.

The air tastes of candle wax, perfume and copper. The copper of blood. The copper of hunger.

A palm shoves between my shoulder blades. I stumble. The blindfold rips away.