Page 41 of Taken By Touch and Torment

I sunk into Durian’s hold. “Thank you, Master.”

19

SCARLETT

They managed to save ten out of the twelve slaves present at my demented crucifixion. In driving vampires to bloodlust, I’d killed two humans.

I’d never hated myself more.

Durian had decided I’d earned a real bed. But I didn’t use it. I curled up on my pet bed by the fire instead, plagued by bouts of weeping followed by numbness. I’d begged Aunt Carol not to mend my wounds, to leave those ugly red lines and patches of spike marks branded on my skin. She’d refused, of course.

She’d not only mended me, she’d also given me better food, including four squares of chocolate. A gift from Durian, delighted that I was the most coveted jewel in the castle and belonged solely to him.

How did I ever think I’d be able to take control of this situation? How could I think it was a good idea to drive the born to the peaks of desire with humans around?

My power clouded my judgment. It made me as selfish and attention-hungry as Isabella always told me I was. She’d been more correct about my true nature than I’d wanted to admit.

Days had passed, and I’d only used my powers as self-defense. I was too deflated to spin new webs. Turned out, the seeds I’d already planted were strong enough to maintain themselves no matter how small I made myself. And being intensely powerful beyond my conscious effort only made me despise what I was more.

Rosalind no longer wanted to be around me. She hadn’t once come to rescue me for a midnight chat.

I was staring up at the ceiling when Durian entered my room, puzzled when he saw me on the pet bed instead of the one above the ground.

He peered at me for three long beats.

I quickly sat up and moved to a kneeling position, averting my eyes to the floor. He patted my head in approval.

“You blame yourself for their deaths,” he said.

My gaze traced the floral designs in the carpet, my lips pulling down.

“Yes, Master.”

No reason to lie. His ability to understand my current state shocked me. Durian was as sociopathic as they came. Though I supposed his position as a powerful religious leader necessitated that he understood emotions like guilt, even if he himself couldn’t feel them.

“You may look up at me.”

I tilted my head up, staring into resolute coldness, the unbreakable, eerie calm of a man who cared for nothing but world domination.

“Lillian does not accept sacrifices of guilt.” He held my chin firmly, but not painfully. “She does not encourage asceticism or self-flagellation. You are mine to punish, pet. You may not do it for me.”

I nodded. “Yes, Master.”

I no longer put up a fight against Durian. I didn’t have the space for it. In a den of lions, he was the king stopping the pride from tearing me limb from limb. After Rune tortured me, he was the one who gave me the barest forms of comfort, the one who drove the cruel turned lord away.

I knew it was sick, but I was dependent on Durian. He was the sole arbiter of everything I did. Every piece of food I consumed, article of clothing I wore, word I spoke, relief from pain I earned. As the days passed and my fight dimmed, he’d become the only thing I lived for. The routines, the protocol, the feeding—it bonded me to him, forced my body to become nothing but an extension of his will, my mind on a constant search to please him and avoid punishment. Isolated and shattered, he was the only glue that held my jagged shards together.

“I have a gift for you, pet,” he said.

“Thank you, Master.”

Pleased, he made a silent motion for me to stand and follow him to my unused bed. It was a two-piece, vibrantly blue gown. Though it was as revealing as my other outfits, it was decadent and beautiful. The top was essentially a corset bra with translucent sleeves. The bottom was two pieces of fabric for the front and back, bound together by a jeweled belt to wrap around my waist. My sides would be completely exposed. I’d long forgotten what it was like to leave my body to the imagination.

“It’s beautiful,” I said. Sunlight streamed through my window, illuminating the wooden floors and dancing across the dark green bedding. Why was Durian here, rather than Aunt Carol? He almost never saw me during the day, time typically used for attending to clan matters—matters I’d been left almost completely in the dark about.

It was as though the palace existed completely outside the reality of whatever conflict bloomed in Aristelle. The only hints I’d uncovered were whispers that the turned had raided born territories for slaves, but that the born had triumphantly pushed them back behind the border.

The other humans and I existed in this palace purely as a form of stress-relief and status symbols for the wealthiest, most powerful born.

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