Page 42 of Scary In Love
WalkingthroughMason’shousewith no underwear on and my clothes ripped open feels obscene. I searched the trolley to see if he’d left something for me to wear, but I can only assume this is part of his plan. He wants me like this.
Dishevelled, distressed, and disoriented.
I’m in less of a hurry to find my second location, unsteady on my feet as I ramble the halls. Briefly, I wonder how much trouble I’d be in if I snuck off somewhere to give myself the orgasm Doctor Miller failed to deliver.
He grilled me at length about orgasm denial, and I agreed to everything, but now I’m so fucking horny I’m eyeing up the phallic bannister posts when I’m supposed to be heading upstairs.
I keep my head down as I climb, keen to avoid the judgement of the ancestors who stare down at me from portraits on the wall.
When I find the correct room, I rest my forehead against the door and try to control my breathing. Music leaks out from underneath it, a low, droning chant. It’s the same music they play in the Ritual room downstairs.
My shoulders tighten. I wipe my clammy palms on my skirt, and try to pull the remains of my top back around me.
For me, the Ritual was the scariest part of the haunt. Tall figures in dark cloaks stood shoulder-to-shoulder in a long line. Watching. Waiting to strike. It was clear we were supposed to attempt to make it through the room without drawing their attention.
When Mum tried to rush it, one stepped in front of her and caged her in against a wall. She screamed her head off, and it’s a miracle she didn’t punch whoever was hiding underneath those robes.
One would be frightening enough, but being left alone with a whole row of them was worse. Beneath their hoods, they wore silver masks with cold black eyes. With the misted floor and hypnotic music, I forgot they were actors in costumes, and all I knew was I was petrified of being caught.
So I played their game and took it slow, but my bravado was entirely false. When I squared up to them, it was impossible to look away, and I felt drawn into a staring contest I’d never win. Anticipation clawed at my throat, and the longer we stood there in silence, the tighter it felt. When one finally lunged for me, I was no better than Mum, and I ran out screaming, too.
Mason knows that room scared me, but he also knows I love to be scared. Do I really want to know what’s waiting for me on the other side of this door?
I know I don’t want to leave, so there’s no other option but to open it.
My heart leaps into my throat when I peek through the gap. The room is bathed in a red haze, and as I suspected, they’re all here. Steeling myself, I step inside, and close the door behind me.
They stand in a circle, masks hidden by their huge hoods. Their cloaks pool around their feet, and they sway in time with the music. It’s theatrics, but it works.
My body sways too, the frequency pulling at my cells and taking over my senses. It reminds me of the Gregorian chant audios I sometimes meditate to, and the way they make my brain feel smooth and my muscles soft.
“Welcome to the Round Table, Jenna.” A chorus of voices, thin and ghoulish, drifts from somewhere far above us. “Step into our circle. Your fate awaits you.”
I move without thinking, making my body as small as possible, as I slip between two figures.
In the middle of their circle is an enormous table, the top carved with dark lines and symbols, stars and constellations, an all-seeing eye. My palms skim over the surface, and I climb onto the table, my body moving as if driven by some other force.
I roll onto my back, and the figures appear to loom over me, their masks giving nothing away. The chanting soothes me, and my nerves evaporate as my body sinks into the wood.
I don’t care about the state of my clothes or my body anymore. I’m here for them, an important part of their ritual. I know it, but then I remember I told Mason I didn’t want an audience. I try to sit up, but two hands, sheathed in a black gloves, land on my shoulder and push me back down.
He stands by my head, his hands cupping my face.
“The spirits cannot be contained, but only two true hearts beat within these four walls,” he says, his hands giving me a reassuring squeeze.
Mason.
Two hearts.
His and mine.
“Two souls, tethered by sin,” he continues. “Tormented by desire. United in euphoria.”
He steps back in line with the other figures, who I have to assume are a very convincing illusion.
Trust is important to Mason, he made that abundantly clear. I took him at his word, and he paid close attention to mine when I said I like the idea of being watched, but not the reality. What he’s created here is better than anything I could have imagined, and once the panic subsides, the idea of all of these ‘people’ watching us has me writhing in anticipation.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply, waiting for the scene to unfold.
