The sheriff is standing on a raised dais, smirking over us all. The moment he speaks, the spell is broken.
“These seven pooled their money for you,” the sheriff laughs. “They went in on you together like boys going in for the newest toy. You will serve them all, girl, spread your legs for each of them until your belly swells with their seed. And you will do it again, and again, until you can do it no more.”
My stomach churns at the idea. The men I am meeting are hard to read. I get the sense that they do not like the sheriff. I can’t imagine anyone does. He rules this part of the world like a mad king, taking what he wants, doing what he wants.
It is hard to take the men in, truly notice each of their different appearances, because Mattias and Elias have stepped away from me and the sheriff comes down from the dais. He takes me by the waist. His arm slips down. His hand cups my rear and he guides me forward.
“I tested her myself,” he says. “No damage to the merchandise, but I assure you, gentlemen, she is ripe for any handling you might have in store for her. No need to be gentle.”
I am horrified by the vile man’s words, so much so that I barely look at the seven men he is giving me to. I can feel their gazes on me, but I am too busy seething with hatred for this man. He took me. He sold me. And he hurt Mattias and Elias. I don’t know why that bothers me as much as it does, perhaps because of the perverse cruelty of it. What I just saw beyond the wall must be his doing too. It is suddenly clear to me that all of this is calculated to be as humiliating and painful as possible. He is a sadist. He is a broken man. And he owns me.
The sheriff draws me up to the dais, facing the men.
“Pleased with your purchase, gentlemen?”
Whatever reaction he was expecting, he doesn’t seem to have gotten it. The men look at me, but there is surprisingly little lechery in their gazes. Most men in this world go feral for a woman, but these men seem to be more sated. Likely they already own several women already. I start to realize they don’t need me. Don’t want me. They’ve taken me because they could.
I hate every single man in this room. I hate the sheriff for selling me. I hate these buyers for buying me. Mattias and Elias have not fought for me. They are neutered, letting me be taken, working for the evil that is putting me in this situation. I am surrounded by men, but I am alone. The sheriff found me backed into barrels of beer, but I am more trapped now than I was then.
The sheriff stands beside me and squeezes my breast, his hand rough and hard enough to make me cry out in complaint.
“This is what you bought to breed, boys. This is the vessel that will carry your seed. She’s ready for it, I promise you that. A wet little fuck toy ready for the taking.”
These men can’t want to see me handled by him this way. But they don’t seem to object. The sheriff has every single man in his realm cuckolded. They bought me, but he is touching me. My father told me of how in the pre-Event times, people would go to restaurants, where they could order any food they want. What this sheriff is doing is like a waiter bringing food to the table, then eating it himself.
“Let’s get this dress off. Show the men what they own.”
I draw away and speak my first words. “They said nobody would touch me!”
“Get the dress off, girl.” His eyes narrow to two angry slits. He is disgusting. Vile. I hate this man. I hate him for what he did to me. I hate him because his rescue was not a rescue at all. It was just opportunistic. I hate him because he frightens me, because he is cruel, and because I am not a person to him. I am meat and money and nothing more.
He reaches for the clasp of the dress—and I act.
He has forced my hand. I would never have done this if he had just left me alone. Even if he had allowed me the mercy of clothing all would have been well. But he tried to take the very last vestiges of my self-respect. He tried to turn me into a toy to be used at his command, and he has not earned that right.
I pull the vase shard from the inner fold. It is no longer merely a piece of broken ceramic. It has been wrapped with fabric cut from the bedsheets in the few minutes I had to myself. My father taught me how to craft knives from practically every substance there is. He taught me how to protect myself, how to survive. And he taught me how to kill.
The ceramic sweeps through the air and finds his throat.
It is over very, very quickly.
I have never taken a blade to a man before, but I know where the arteries are, and it is not so different from killing a wild pig. I know to follow the prey down and ensure that both sides are cut. I know how to take life quickly, cleanly, and without remorse. This is too harsh an existence to feel pity for those who must die.
The sheriff bleeds out in a matter of seconds, his body at my feet, his blood crimson like my dress. I am surrounded by a sanguine pool, holding the once pristine ceramic knife, now tainted with his blood.
I look up to the warriors who thought they bought my flesh. They will kill me now, but I am ready for death, and I will take more than one of them with me if I have to.
They stare at what was the sheriff. At me. And then at each other.
Everything is still. I expected cries of rage, an attack to avenge his death, but it would seem nobody is angered by the loss of the man at my feet.
I am surrounded, not so much by anger or even shock, but by pure surprise.
The one in the center, the tallest one, comes toward me. He takes a single step. I draw back, the hem of my skirt dragging blood along with it.
“Stay back!”
I shriek the words, brandishing the blade. He doesn’t even look at it. He looks at me. In his gaze, I am held. It is as though I am falling into deep brown eyes, touched with just enough light to make them gleam amber. There is a kindness and a strength in that hard face partially marked with angular tattoos that run along the lines of his jaw on the left side. There are scars too. He has been cut before. Survived before.