Page 35 of Lethal Truths

I’m tired, yet I can’t sleep. Sore, yet it doesn’t bother me any longer. Angry, oh so goddamn angry… yet I’ve given up any hope that I can fight my way out of here.

I’m going to die. Of that much, I’m sure.

So when the door creaks open at some point during my misery, I don’t even look up to see who strides in. Why bother? Heather told me I had days until the full moon, which I assume is when I’ll be slaughtered like some sacrifice for these people. For all I know, days have passed, and the time is now.

My eyes are heavy, staring but unseeing at the floor and my bloody toes. A figure kneels down in front of me, placing a bucket of water right beside my feet. I barely have the strength to train my eyes on them. It’s a man with deep red hair, a color so much like mine that I smile despite my dry, cracked lips.

“Nice hair,” I muse, though my voice comes out as a weak croak. I haven’t been given water or food. I haven’t seen another soul since Heather left me. All I’ve had to pass the time was thoughts of my mom. I suppose that was Heather’s goal when she made that comment; to freak me out, set me in never-ending panic.

Fucking bitch.

The man at my feet takes a white rag from the edge of the bucket and dips it into the water. He doesn’t acknowledge my words except for a lazy nod. With the rag dripping in his hand, he sets to washing my feet.

Between the ice cold water and the sting from all the scrapes on my toes, it snaps me from an odd place between wake and sleep and plants me firmly in the terror of my situation. I hiss, my entire body clenching in agony. “Could’ve used warm water, at least, you asshole,” I mutter once I’ve caught my breath.

This time, the man does react, lifting his face to look me dead in the eye. His green gaze is cutting and his thick red beard reminds me of blood. “Why offer such luxuries for the lunae sacrificium?“ he asks dryly.

I scrunch my face up at the use of — I’m guessing here — Latin. Something my mom told me flits through my brain about the Greeks being Latin. I mean, that’s why I got into Greek life, but I wasn’t sure if that was a waste of time. Hell, maybe it was a coincidence that Asher, Creed, Griffin, and Heather were all Greeks? But now I’m guessing not. Do they all speak Latin, or is this man just something special?

“Why bother cleaning me at all, then?”

“To cleanse you of your sins and filth before you lie under the moon,” he replies distractedly. “It’s an honor to be in your position. Through you, we’re able to continue our good fortune. Because of you, our work can keep going. You should feel lucky.”

I snort, but any amusement I feel quickly dries up when I realize he’s very serious. Holy shit, these people are actually lunatics. “How long have I been here?” I ask after a moment, hoping to gage how much time alive I have left.

The man continues washing my feet, getting all the dried blood off. “A while,” he answers vaguely.

“When is the full moon?” I try next. I don’t really know why, considering I’m going to die either way. But isn’t it better to know when? Or should I go into it blind so I don’t have time to really panic?

The man ignores me this time, dipping the dirty rag into the bucket and getting it nice and freezing again. Finished with my feet, he moves up my legs, starting with my left calf, and then goes to the right. He continues this way up both thighs until he’s way too fucking close to my vagina.

Vomit crawls up my throat as I jerk in my ropes, swinging back as much as I can. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I hiss while my heart rate sky rockets into an unhealthy gallop.

The man rolls his eyes, grabbing my right ankle to pull me back and hold me still. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not excited by incest,” he deadpans.

My racing heart stops dead at those words. I blink at him, waiting for the punchline, but it never comes. “W-what?” I stutter out.

Again, he ignores me. He brings the rag to my stomach and starts washing my torso like this is a totally normal situation. Maybe for him it is.

“Please,” I whisper while my eyes sting with bitter, confused tears. “Are you— Are we f-family?”

He gazes up at me with his empty green eyes and offers me a cutting smile. “Your mom was such a fighter. It was a trait I found hard to resist. She was stronger than any of the others before her. I can see where you get it from.”

My brain flicks through all the vague information I’ve gathered since getting kidnapped. My eyes catalogue the man’s hair and face, and the more I stare, the more I think I see the similarities. “Are you my father?” I croak.

The door bangs open, startling me. A sickeningly familiar face walks in and promptly ends the conversation.

“Jude, leave her,” Asher’s dad barks, sparing me a disgusted glare.

“She’s not cleansed,” the man, Jude, argues, turning to look at Bruce over his shoulder.

“She’s good enough. You’re needed in the ritual chamber,” Bruce declares before walking right back out of the room.

Jude releases a heavy sigh, looking over my chest and arms like he can see all the impurities he needs to wash. Finally, he shakes his head, muttering something low under his breath as he drops the rag in the water bucket and then stands. He turns to leave without a word, and I scramble to find an ounce of empathy or something.

“Please, don’t leave me! Don’t let them do this to me,” I rush out. “You’re my dad, you can’t, ple—“

He spins back around, lips curled in a snarl. “I laid with your mother one time. Just once, just to experience her exquisite fight. What grew in her afterward was never my choice and she fled before I could do anything about it,” he seethes, stalking toward me with every acidic word. “Consider this a delayed abortion.”

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