Page 43 of Degradation
“Magnus.” My husband says, holding his arms almost as a mockery.
I bite my lip, bite back the gasp. That is Magnus Blake? Oh, I know of him, I know of his family. His father too and the horrific death his mother endured at her husbands’ hands. My eyes run over him before I can stop myself and I realise I’ve seen that look before, I’ve seen those features before.
No. Surely not.
I scan the room, staring at the guards and as they land on him, on that giant of a man, it feels like an entire bucket worth of ice falls on me. He looks back. That fucking monster stares right back at me and I swear his lip curls just a tiny bit.
It’s him. Isn’t it? He’s his brother. His younger brother. He’s a Blake. A fucking Blake.
I let out a whimper and Gunther reaches out, grabbing my hand.
“Now, now.” He murmurs. “You have nothing to fear from such a man as this.” He says almost reassuringly. As if my fear is that he’s been summoned to take me away, to lock me away, to turn me into one of his slaves in that cursed prison his family have built and managed since before any of us were even born.
I blink back, staring again at the floor, trying to compose myself when I’m already so far beyond breaking point.
That monster is a Blake.
“You’re scaring my wife, Magnus.” Gunther says, like he gives a shit when I’m afraid or not. Like he hasn’t terrorised me more than any other person in this room.
Magnus inclines his head the tiniest of bits, the least he can get away with. “Apologies, Chapter Lord, Chapter Lady.”
I give a weak smile, but I swear my knees are shaking so much you can hear them rattling against one another.
Gunther waves his hand again, dismissively. “You are not here to make niceties.” He states. “Did you bring what I requested?”
Something flickers across Magnus’s face. Something I can’t read.
“I have.” He says, forcing his features into something that should be neutral, should be impassive, only, on him it looks even worse. He raises his hands, giving a quick clap and behind him, a rattling begins.
I can’t be the only one who gasps as a dozen shackled men and women are marched into the space.
Gunther places his pudgy hands on either side of his throne, and he raises himself up so that he’s half stood, half hunched over. His eyes snap to every single slave as they hang their heads and come to a stop before us.
“Twelv, twelve?” He says as if he’s only just learnt to count.
“You requested twelve.” Magnus replies.
“I did. I did. But I wanted more.” Gunther states. “I expected you to surprise me with more. I expected at least two dozen.”
“Two dozen?” Magnus repeats, with more than an edge to his voice. “Chapter Lord, we are all here to follow your instructions to the letter. I cannot be expected to guess the whims of a man as esteemed as you are when I, myself, am so lowly. If you wanted more, then should have clearly stated it.”
Gunther stares at him, clearly trying to work out if there was an insult in all that or not.
“I am as always, your humble servant.” Magnus says, giving a low bow before he turns and heads back to the open doorway.
As the brothers pass, I note the exchange, the glance, the silent unspoken words between them but whatever it is they’re communicating, I don’t get a chance to work it out.
“Slaves.” Gunther says, clapping his hands in glee, bringing my attention right back to him. “Now we can really indulge ourselves.”
I don’t know how it didn’t sink in before where these people came from. That they’re from Oblivion. I stare at them, knowing that at some point every single one of them was a sanctified member of the Brethren. They were righteous. Until they did something that got them banished.
Some servants moves to unchain them all from one another and then they’re separated out, made to kneel, made to take various positions around the room.
I can’t help but feel sorry for them despite the fact that I know they must have committed some awful crime to be where they are. They all look toned, muscular, but not overly so. All the women have firm bodies except for a couple who have huge breasts and rounder stomachs and wide, curvaceous hips. When I look at them, I wonder if that’s what people really mean when they describe women as voluptuous and hourglass. Not my cosmetically altered appearance.
I glance down at myself, comparing my body with theirs. I’m not skinny. The fact I have less ribs makes it appear so but my hips are wide enough and my breasts are big enough to prove that if I could eat what I wanted and leave my body be, I’d probably look more like them than I do.
Most of the women are wearing revealing enough outfits. But the men are completely naked. One of the men has something around him that I don’t even want to look at, so I ensure my eyes never reach him.
