Page 6 of Gift from the Nexus

“Because we’re not using your magic, it’s the Memoria stones. It’s attached to your mind, yes, but it’s still the conduct.And I’m limited to what I can see happening or what I’m supposed to tell you to do. I’m so sorry filia mea.”

The sincerity and guilt in their tone causes my chest to pull tight and the little hope I had evaporates slightly. They’ll help me where they can, I know it, but they don’t have to admit it for me to understand this is one of those obstacles Elementra said I’d have to figure out on my own.

Did it really have to be this of all things, though?

“Don’t be sorry. You’re here for me right now, and that’s what I need.”I whisper in my mind quickly as my father drags the knife across my new scar on my stomach.

Of course he’d notice both the mating mark and that. They’re two new markings that he didn’t put there himself.

“Your husbands are going to be quite upset to find out you’ve been whoring around since coming here. My, my, the mess you’ve truly made.” He sighs deeply.

Yeah, well, Donald can fuck—

Wait…

The slash of his knife across my stomach, from my belly button to hip, is rapid, abrupt, and it takes a second for the pain to register, but as soon as the blood pours down my side, I cry out. My wails echo off the four walls, piercing my own ears sharply.

He gives me no reprieve, going in again, slicing directly over the first cut. Drawing more blood and more guttural screams from my throat. I feel the river of red already starting to flow down the table. Some of it is soaking into my underwear, while the rest continues its path through the chiseled grooves.

I remember the first time he ever strapped me to a table like this. I was eight. It was right after a miserable and messy attempt to draw my blood like they’d been doing since I was six. I hit, kicked, screamed, and finally, I bit the doctor, or whoever the hell they were, so hard I tore the skin and made them bleed.

That was my father’s final straw.

He dragged me by my hair from his study, through the house, and down a set of stairs I’d never been allowed to see. That’s where he kept his table. His torture room.

I swore after that, I’d never fight them again if they wanted to draw my blood. I’d grit it and bear to never have to experience that again. I laid on that table alone, crying out and screaming for hours after he finished and left me there strapped down, unable to move.

My behavior never played a role again in whether I’d have to face that table. I could sit still like a perfect angel, no matter how careless they shoved the needle in me, and I’d still end up strapped down whenever he saw fit.

I was a teenager when I realized it didn’t matter if I was defiant, polite, curious, or cautious, my father enjoyed inflicting pain on me.

The rhythmic drip of my blood flowing into whatever contraption he has down there catching it draws me out of my pain-induced memory, and I glare at my father as he takes deep, satisfying breaths. A disgusting smirk plays on his lips, and with his eyes closed, head tilted back, he looks truly peaceful.

“What have you been using my blood for?” I ask firmly, proud my voice didn’t crack despite the tremble in my body.

“Such questions are of no concern to you.”

“It’s obviously my concern. It’s my blood. Are you giving it to the creatures in the Forsaken Forest?” I push. His eyes widen for a split second, then narrow on me.

“What do you know about the forest?”

The second he asks, I know I fucked up by bringing that up. They can’t know that we know about the portal in the forest or Keeper. I mentally berate myself for opening my big mouth while focusing as hard as I can on keeping my face the same mask of fury and scrutiny it was a moment ago. I know I can’t getaway without telling him something now, though. He’ll slice me up until I finally cry it out.

“That someone, assuming you and your little friends, are feeding the creatures that live there.”

“So you’ve been studying at least somewhat on this realm since arriving. Good to know. Who gave you that mark?” He follows up, his eyes burning holes into my hip like my mark personally offends him.

This time, I do refuse him an answer. Not a peep will fall from my lips about who they are to me. I don’t care what he does. He won’t hear a word about them.

Turning on his heels, he takes purposeful steps toward his weapons display, not touching any of them, just staring. Clenching his fist, his shoulders rise and fall, faster and faster.

“Answer me,” he bellows, causing me to flinch at the unexpected noise. He never raises his voice. His words and actions are cruel enough without needing to.

His patience wears thin rapidly, and before I can take a deep breath to steel myself, he whips around. His hands are free of the sharp filet knife he just used, and unfortunately is replaced with that torturous, enchanted dagger. A ferocious sound leaves his mouth as he cuts me deep, right down the middle of the teeth marks. A rage like I’ve never seen or heard from him takes over his entire demeanor as he slices away at my hip.

Over and over and over, the sharp dagger tears, and burns into my mating mark chaotically as if he’s trying to carve it from my skin. Slice it so completely, it’s unrecognizable.

He’s ruining it.

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