Requiem of the Soul (The Society Trilogy 1)

The woman gasps and is at my side in an instant.

I sit up, still holding the blanket, and lean my back against the bed, very aware of the ache between my legs, the rawness there.

“It’s okay. I’m fine.” This happens all the time, I don’t say. “I just need to eat something. I’ll be fine.”

She bends over me, worry creasing her face. She nods, calls to the girl she just shooed into the hallway. “Go get some toast and juice. Bring it upstairs.”

“But the master said—”

“I’ll worry about the master. You do as I say. Quickly.” She disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a glass of water.

I take it, drink a sip. “Thank you.” I touch my forehead.

“You’ve hurt yourself.”

My fingers come away bloody. “It’s fine. It’s just a cut.” I look at my wrists at the same time her eyes fall to them. What does she make of me, I wonder? A new bride with rope burns on her wrists, those ropes on the floor between us. Blood on the sheets.

I feel my face get hot.

She clears her throat and helps me back on the bed, and I try not to look at the blood smeared on it. Try not to think about how he used those sheets to clean me.

The girl returns then. I hear her coming. She must be hurrying because whatever is on the tray is clattering loudly.

“Here we are,” the older woman says as she takes the tray and sets it on the nightstand. I glance at the lamp that fell over, realizing there’s no bulb in it. I look around the grim room at the remnants of all the candles. Does he use only candles throughout the house? It’s a behemoth. I saw that much last night.

The woman hands me a cup of freshly squeezed orange juice, and I happily take it, drinking it all.

“Better,” I say, feeling the sugar do its work. “Thank you.”

She pours more into my cup from the small pitcher and I sip that one and eye the toast.

“Go on and eat something. We’ll start in another room and come back.”

“But ma’am,” the other girl starts.

“You hush,” she tells her and hustles her out.

Once they close the door, I put my cup down and pick up a piece of toast to eat a few bites dry then get off the bed to take the sheets off myself, embarrassed of what they’ve already seen. I bundle it inside the blanket and leave it on the foot of the bed then cross the room naked to go into the bathroom. A shower will make me feel better. And clothes. And then I’ll think about what comes next.

But first, I need to see the tattoo. Standing in front of the mirror, I look at myself. No new bruises at least. Nothing fresh enough for me to notice apart from the cut on my forehead. It’s small, though, and doesn’t hurt much.

Will it always be that way with him? A battle?

I take off the rosary and set it on the counter to splash water on my face and dry it, pull what’s left of the pins out of my hair, releasing the last of the twist. I lift it up and turn my back to the mirror, trying to get a look at the tattoo. All I can see is that it’s carefully covered in plastic.

I go through the drawers for a handheld mirror to get a look at it but find none. I’ll have to ask him to show me. I hate that I have to ask him for anything. But the truth is, I know I’ll have to ask for everything.

By the time I get out of the shower, the bed has been remade, the soiled bedding gone, and the lamp righted. Brand new candles have been placed inside the candleholders, a few already lit.

The large walk-in closet is filled with clothes, all new and all in my size, but hardly any of it my style. I choose the simplest sweater and pair of jeans I can find and put them on along with a pair of comfortable, thick socks. I don’t bother with shoes. They mostly have high heels. I slip the rosary on although it’s cumbersome but then I hear his words again.

“I think you’ll do exactly as you’re told.”

I reach beneath my sweater, take it off and set it beside the bed. He can’t seriously expect me to wear a freaking rosary around my neck 24/7.

I go to the door and try it. I expect it to be locked so I’m not surprised when I find it is. I guess he’s not taking any chances that he’s wrong. That I won’t do as he says. With a shake of my head, I turn back into the room, trying to ignore the part of me that is relieved at least one choice to disobey him has been taken away.