Page 58 of The Vipers and Their Vendetta

I’m aware she and Lex have arranged a safe word—he tells me everything, but just because she has one doesn’t mean we’d listen, does it? I don’t even know, myself. Things were crazy in that place last night. Lex might have, but would I? Would Zane?

Except she trusted we would.

She trusted we would tie her up yet still keep her safe. She experienced fear, at various times. I saw it in her face, but ultimately, she comes back to us again and again. Putting her soft, pretty, vulnerable flesh right back into our hands.

Why?

I don’t fucking understand it. She should be running the fuck away from us and never looking back.

It bothers me that someone else in the college has taken a disliking to Vani. Was it those damned Preachers who wrote that thing about her on the lockers? Whoever did it will find us staring down at them the moment we find out. We might not trust her, but she’s ours to fuck with. Our fucking property. The fact that someone would dare go against us is making me fume. I can’t imagine who else it would be, but the Preachers don’t make sense. They have used her already, haven’t they? For that magic they said they’d carried out, and really, writing stupid shit on lockers is juvenile and not their style.

I try to focus on my painting. I’ve sketched out the perfect shape of her limbs, and of the ropes, and added my first color wash, but it doesn’t feel right.

No,Idon’t feel right. It’s as though I’ve got a million tiny ants crawling through my veins, and I can’t seem to get comfortable. My skin feels like it wants to peel from my body, and I catch myself scratching my arms so hard I’ve left red marks scraped in my skin.

My mind goes to those damned Preachers again and their stupid spells. Hadn’t they used Vani’s hair and blood to create one against us? To hurt us? I used to think they were just idiots,but using her hair and blood? That’s kind of freaky. That’s shit getting real. In Europe, we used to hunt witches. Maybe the Preachers ought to be chased down and hung.

Is that why my skin is itching so badly, and I can’t seem to sit still? Their magic?

I still have Roman’s cross. Does he know? Is this his way of getting back at me for taking it? No, that’s crazy thinking. I found it in the woods, so he’d have no way of knowing I came across it. I’ll keep it as insurance.

My mind wanders back to the moment I told Vani about the nanny and the look in her eyes. That sadness disturbs me. I want to wash it off my skin because it makes me think there was something seriously wrong with it, and therefore us.

It was just something that happened to us, a long time ago. It doesn’t mean anything, and there’s fuck-all we can do to change things now. We’ve got no idea where the woman is, and all we know of her is her first name. We never paid enough attention to what her surname was, not at that age. Maybe if we spoke to our father, we’d be able to figure it out, but there’s no chance of Lex or me doing such a thing.

Besides, even if we found her, what would we do? Go to the police and start some lengthy court battle where it would be her word against ours? We could never risk bringing the authorities into our business. I can’t imagine what our dad would say if we showed up with the cops to dig into our lives. He’d kill us himself—I actually think he would. If we told him what happened, he’d probably just congratulate us and slap us on the shoulder and say something about her making men out of us.

We could kill her, of course, but again, that would mean finding her, and it would mean the risk of law enforcement investigating and again leading to issues for the family business. And killing women? That is not okay in our world.

I think of how everyone would react if they knew. They’d be the same as our dad and think we’d scored.

Was that how we’d felt at the time? My memories of everything are so messed up now. I’d been confused, but also excited. That she’d been someone in charge of my care had been a turn off, though, which was why I couldn’t get hard. She’d also seemed so much older, and that intimidated me. I mean, now, thirty years old is nothing, but back then she’d seemed like a proper adult to my fourteen years. I don’t know where I’d found the guts to insult her the way I had. Maybe if I’d been weaker and had run away crying instead of calling her a perverted whore, then I’d never have had sex with her. But calling her those things had been the only way I’d been able to get through it.

Thank God, in one way, that it went like that. If I’d run away, freaked out, maybe I’d still not be able to get it up. The thought makes me shudder, and I realize, maybe for the first time, that what she did was really fucking messed up. And with the two of us. That takes a sick mind, and some seriously fucking brass balls. To abuse not one kid, but two, at the same time. That’s what they’d call it these days, abuse.

I hate the term; it sits sticky and nasty on my skin. Makes me feel weak. Fuck it.

I close my eyes at the memory, shutting off the canvas I’m working on. Once I’m focused again, the past relegated to where it belongs, I reopen my eyes and take in the canvas.

I should probably be painting some scenery, but instead I’m painting ropes and knots, and beautiful, pale, indented skin. It’s a closeup, so you can’t see Vani’s face, but any of us who were there last night would know who it is in an instant.

I haven’t heard from either Lex or Zane this morning. Are we all feeling kind of uncomfortable about how we treated Vani last night? What if she is telling the truth, and we did that to her? She truly could have just lost a sister she never knew, and wemake her feel better by practically abducting her, tying her up, and fucking all her holes. Then, when she was begging, we threw her out.

At no point had she changed her story.

Does that mean she’s telling the truth?

I let out a growl and palm the back of my neck, twisting my head one way and then the other. I’m a balled-up knot of tension. Even all the sex last night hasn’t helped—if anything, it’s made things worse. I tell myself it’s good if she hates us. That way, it won’t even matter if she’s connected to Jarl Olsen because she won’t be able to tell him anything anyway, other than the size of our cocks, and I doubt he’ll be interested in that.

My mind skips to Vani—tied up and helpless and begging. That bit isn’t the worst of it—no, that was us throwing her out. We know exactly what we did. I don’t normally feel guilt. I’ve tortured people for my father and put a bullet in an enemy. I got fucked, literally, by the nanny, and my twin and I are messed up and twisted. Vani, though, she makes me feel guilty, and then I just hate her all the more for that guilt.

Can we still claim we’ve done nothing wrong? We all know we can’t, and that’s why we’re avoiding each other’s guilty and damning gazes. Hiding away like cowards.

Something taps me on the shoulder, then again on my head, and once on my arm. I put out my palm to catch a fat raindrop.Merde. I need to get out of here.

I get to my feet and gather my belongings, but, before I get the chance to cover my canvas, the skies open.

Torrential rain falls, soaking me to the skin. I don’t even care about getting wet, but my fledgling painting is ruined.

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