Page 57 of Deviant

As if I’ve done something he’s actually pleased with.

“Come,” he says, taking my arm, not giving me the opportunity to do anything but obey.

And he leads me not back to my cell, not to the room where he delights in torturing me, but up a set of stairs into what must be the main part of the house.

My feet leave bloodstained prints on the pristine carpet. Even in the frantic state I’m in, I still flinch at all the damage I’m causing.

Magnus leads me past what must be a dozen servants—none of whom dare look at me. They all keep their gaze ahead, staring onwards, as if I’m a mirage, a ghostly apparition they can simply ignore.

When we reach the top of another set of stairs, we come face to face with a man. He’s dressed in a crisp white shirt, black suit, exuding the same kind of arrogance as my captor. Hell, they even look the same, though this man is obviously younger than Magnus.

“Conrad.” Magnus says,pausing.

The man glances at him then lets his eyes linger on me, on my breasts, on the way a trail of blood is trickling its way down through the middle of them—and that tells me that he’s someone, someone of power, someone of danger, someone who isn’t afraid of Magnus, at least, not in this moment.

“I see you’ve been playing.” Conrad says with a slight smirk.

Magnus narrows his eyes just a little. “Do you have business?”

“No, no, nothing urgent. Wouldn’t want to stop…” He waves his arm, gesturing to me.

“Then I will see you at dinner.” Magnus states before dragging me onwards.

Whatever room he brings me to, it’s more than obvious this isn’thisroom. It looks too simple, too basic. I doubt a man who’s full of his own importance would sleep in a place that looks more like a bland B&B, albeit a fancy one at that.

No, someone like Magnus would have every luxury going, the thickest rugs, the biggest bed, probably would have some fancy oil painting of himself right over a marble mantlepiece too.

He shoves me into the equally nondescript bathroom and hoses me down, only this time at least the water is warm.

I guess it’s a good thing that I don’t have any real hair because there’s nothing to dry when I come back out.

He dabs over me with a towel, then discards it for someone else to pick up.

When we go back into the bedroom, I start to shake, because this all feels too normal, too intimate. When I was in the basement, I could at least define what was going to happen. Now, it feels like the world beneath me has shifted and I have no idea what is going on.

“Lie down,” he orders.

I should fight, I should say something, do something. But it’s like my mind is in a haze, like I’m not fully aware of everything. I’m still sofrantic, so overwhelmed by what I’ve done, by what Saul did, by all of it to even begin to react rationally now.

So instead, I walk over to the bed, like I’m some docile, obedient little thing and I lie down on my back, placing my arms on my stomach while my eyes fix on the ceiling above me.

The sheets are silk, the bed is so soft, and all I can think about is the fact I can’t remember when I last was in a real bed, with pillows and a duvet.

His hands are what bring me back, draw me from my head but even then, I just lay still, feeling what he’s doing, allowing it, being compliant because my mind won’t allow me to do otherwise.

He pulls my legs wide, settles himself between them, and though my adrenaline spikes, I don’t outwardly react in the slightest.

Hot air, hot breath hits my core, I whimper at the first lick of his tongue. But he’s not being aggressive right now, he’s not doing this in a way that in any other circumstances would feel threatening.

And yet, I’m not consenting.

He’s my captor, my kidnapper, my rapist.

Nothing about this situation is okay.

None of this is what I want.

“Obedience deserves a reward,” he murmurs, as though that is simply it. As though I’ve simply performed a task to his satisfaction, and now I’m being given a nice little thank you cookie.

---