The Fall of V (The Henchmen MC 13)

Maybe a little stunting would be good. Cut down on the constant need to buy him entirely new wardrobes.

"It's about Ferryn, isn't it?" he asked, gaze steady.

"Yes."

He nodded a bit at that. "What happened?"

He was thirteen.

And while I wouldn't give him the whole truth, he deserved at least a part of it.

"I think she is in a dark place," I said carefully, seeming to know that he would understand my meaning.

Judging by the slight flinch at the words, and the way his gaze refused to hold mine for a long minute, I realized I was right in that assumption.

When he looked back, he was purely his father, any bit of me I usually found there was gone.

"Then we have to get her back into the light."SEVENFerrynI couldn't get to her.

Uselessness was a chain around my throat, just as sure and unforgiving as the shackle around my ankle, eating away at the flesh with a constant burning pain.

I couldn't get to her, gently wipe away some of the blood, lift her into a less painful-looking position, rub her back, do something, anything to try to show her some comfort, some softness, some love in this pain-filled, hard, heartless place.

But I couldn't get to her.

And the hours stretched long and silent save for Mary groaning on the other side of the room, dry heaving, going through her own misery that I suddenly wished I could ease as well.

Both of them were in hell, and, unfathomably, all I had to complain about were some bruises, a wiggling tooth, and the constant, gnawing hunger in my stomach.

They hadn't fed us.

They would, of course, or else I'd be trapped in a basement with corpses instead of women, so the food would come eventually, taking the twisting pain away enough to be able to focus fully again.

I'd never been a girl on a diet, one denying herself food to fit a certain aesthetic. Partly because that rail-thin look simply wasn't in Vogue anymore. Curvier bodies that said you didn't deprive yourself a donut now and again were what people wanted to see, wanted to embrace. And since I fit that skinnier old-school version of beauty, I let myself stuff my face, hoping that I would eventually get some curves like normal girls my age.

You'll get there, my mother had assured me, to which I had stubbornly reminded her that I got my period three years before, that I should have developed already. I was a bit of a late bloomer too, she'd insisted. I might not have a rack the likes of Aunt Lo, but I think I rounded out alright. At eighteen or so. Give it time. Don't be in such a rush to grow up.

The adults said that a lot about growing up. As if society gave us a choice, as if anyone was allowed to be a kid past the age of twelve. Girls especially.

The second we stepped foot through the doors of middle school, we had to leave girlish things behind, had to get rid of beloved toys and replace them with makeup, hair straighteners, tweezers, razors.

All they want is a pretty face and an empty head, I had grumbled at lunch one day to Iggy who wasn't allowed to wear makeup, so found herself somewhat of an outcast in that sense too. And spread legs, a boy at the table behind me added, further confirming my thoughts.

Twelve, going on thirteen, and the only thing in anyone's minds was a hyper-sexualized outlook on life. As though all there was of interest was how our bodies worked.

Heck, Iggy and I were probably the last virgins in our grade.

A huge part of that was by choice, but also because boys looked at her with her insanely strict background differently, and, well, no one looked at me because of who my father was.

Suddenly, I wished I had taken the plunge, had let Conor who had been my first kiss go further like he had wanted to. Maybe I hadn't been in love with him, or even liked him all that much, but at least that would have been a better memory of a first time than this would.

Even with thoughts of impending rape on my mind, my stomach grumbled harder still, loud enough that I was sure it echoed off the empty walls.

"Chris," I called, voice low and coaxing, unable to take the blank stare a moment longer, even if maybe that was a selfish thing to think. "Come back," I added, though, again, maybe that was a cruel demand.

What would she come back to?

A body brutalized again, hurt in untold ways... again.

Reminded of what had happened to her... again.

Maybe the kinder thing was to let her stay there. At the beach, at Christmas, wherever she was that allowed her to escape this reality where terrible things happened without her consent, where there was no potential even for the smallest sliver of happiness.