Page 6 of Gift from the Tree

“Donald, it’s time to share what’s yours with your new brotherhood. Aside from me, of course.” Father beams at him, shaking his hand and handing off the dagger.

Is he not like in charge of this bullshit?

Or is it because all of this is already his, he just gave it to Donald?

So technically, Donald doesn’t have shit to give his “brotherhood.”

Why does he need the dagger?

Fucking stupid cult of psychos.

Confusion contorts my face as I seek an answer from my father, but he just looks at me, emotionless, like he couldn’t care less whether I’m here or not, and I don’t just mean in this room, I mean period.

“Of course, sir.” At the sound of that cool, smooth tone, I whip my head toward Donald and find him already looking at me. Not with the same look my father has, but the sick, satisfied smile he wears when he’s admiring his handiwork of beating me bloody. Strutting toward me, I thrash as hard as I can in the hands of the men still holding me in place.

“What are you doing? Father, you said—” I cut my words as Donald places the tip of his dagger directly on top of my pubic bone. One wrong move and he’ll stab right into my vagina.

“You’re mine, dear wife, so now I’m going to share you with my brothers.” Donald’s laughter barely registers in my mind. My ears are ringing so loud, everything else is coming in as muffled echoes. The sound only comes back when I hear the tear of fabric. The dagger sliced through my romper like butter, from my vagina to my neck.

Share. Me.

Two

Willow

No. No. No. Share me.

I think the fuck not. Donald has raped me countless times over the course of this sham marriage, no matter how hard I fought. Eventually, if it took longer than he wanted to get me under control, he’d just knock me out and do as he pleased. It’s been agony, fucking pure terror, having to grit my teeth and endure that repeatedly, but this. This. I refuse to allow sixteen men to take me against my will for some fucking blood cult.

“Fuck no, get your fucking hands off me,” I scream, drowning out the sound of fabric ripping from my body.

Deep breath. Stay calm. If you black out, there’s no telling what they’ll do.

“Donald, you stupid, sick fuck—” I don’t see the slap coming, I’m thrashing, bucking, and kicking out as hard as I can. Only once the pain registers do I stop moving. Breathing hard, I stare him down.

“You’ll watch your fucking mouth when you speak to me, Willow. You have no choice in this. You should feel grateful that these men even want you. Be thankful that this is a smaller initiation and not the entire society present.” A crazy, almost thoughtful look crosses his face as if he’s contemplating putting this off until the entire society can join this sick madness.

“Get her tied to my desk.” The finality in his words has the men who are holding me in place moving, dragging me as I fight like a woman possessed.

“Father, how could you? Don’t let them do this to me, please.” If stooping to beg my father for mercy is the way out of this, that’s exactly what I’ll do.

I refuse to be gang raped by sixteen men, seventeen if my spineless fuck of a rapist decides to join. Even in my mind, I can’t bring myself to call him my husband anymore. It’s been beaten into me that I address him with that title if I’m ever speaking of him, always keep him in the highest regards, but the taste of ash on my tongue has me choking back a gag just thinking that.

“There’s no stopping this, Willow. It’ll happen. You were born but a useless woman. If you’d shown any potential, it’d all be different. Or if you’d been born a son, but your pathetic mother couldn’t get either task right. Donald, let me know when it’s done, my boy.” With those parting words, my father turns and walks out.

How dare he allow this to happen to me? Granted, yes, he used to be the one who would beat me every day, and he essentially sold me off to Donald, but a fucking gang rape? Is there no line? And how fucking ignorant and sexist can you be to believe it’s the woman who decides the sex of a child, when it’s actually his useless fucking swimmers.

My mind is spiraling out of control, a mixture of white-hot rage, with nowhere to boil over, and deep, satiated fear that I’m going to have to lie back and endure this. There’s no escaping. They have both of my legs tied to the bottom of the desk, the cold wood pressing against my calves, with my ass perched on the very edge. Getting one of my hands free, I cock my arm back and punch the guy holding my other arm straight in his face. The satisfaction of hearing the crack of his nose and his bellowing is short-lived.

Donald comes behind the desk and grabs a hand full of my hair, then slams my head down on the desk so hard I see stars.

“You’ll pay for that, you little bitch,” yells the man I just punched. He’s so close to me, the blood that’s pouring from his nose splatters all over my face.

“Indeed, she will, Michael. You can fuck her first if it pleases you,” Donald offers.

Sneering at me like I’m scum, broken nose guy—I mean, Michael—nods his agreement. “I don’t know how you’ve put up with such a defiant bitch for so many years.”

“As soon as I have my heirs, I’ll no longer have to worry about that.”

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