The sunlight that filtered through the
floor-to-ceiling windows of the Rector breakfast nook was too bright, too
cheerful for the rot settling in my bones. I stood by the sideboard, my hands
trembling as I gripped the silver handle of the coffee carafe. The smell of
expensive Arabica beans, usually comforting, now made my stomach churn.
Every time the silk of my skirt brushed
against the insides of my thighs, my breath hitched. I could still feel the
phantom weight of his hands. I could still feel the slickness that had dried
against my skin before I had spent an hour scrubbing myself in a scalding
shower, trying to wash away a sensation that seemed tattooed onto my soul.
"Thea."
His voice was a low vibration that seemed
to travel through the floorboards and up into my heels. I stiffened, my spine
turning into a rod of ice.
Thane Rector sat at the head of the table,
the New York Financial Times spread out before him. He looked impeccable. Not a
hair out of place, his white dress shirt crisp enough to draw blood, the top
two buttons undone to reveal the tanned column of his throat. He looked like a
man who had slept the sleep of the righteous, not a man who had nearly
unraveled his stepdaughter's sanity just hours prior.
"My coffee, girl," he prompted, his
silver-blue eyes remaining fixed on the newsprint.
I walked toward him, my steps measured and
silent. As I leaned over to fill his cup, the scent of him-sandalwood,
expensive tobacco, and pure, unadulterated power-filled my lungs. My hand
shook, a single drop of dark liquid splashing onto the white linen tablecloth.
I froze. In this house, a stain was a sin.
Lucifer didn't look up. He simply reached
out, his large, warm hand wrapping around my wrist. His grip wasn't tight, but
it was absolute. He didn't pull me away; he held me there, leaning over him, my
heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"You're jumpy this morning," he murmured.
His thumb began to stroke the delicate skin of my inner wrist, right over my
racing pulse. He was counting my fear. "Did you not sleep well, Thea?"
"I... I slept fine, Father," I lied, my
voice a mere whisper.
"Lying is a foul habit," he said, finally
lifting his gaze. The coldness was gone, replaced by that dark, simmering
hunger that made my knees weak. He let go of my wrist, but only to trail his
fingers up my arm, pushing back the sleeve of my blouse. "Your eyes tell a
different story. They look... haunted. Perhaps you spent the night thinking about
our little session?"
I couldn't speak. The air in the room felt
like it had been sucked out, replaced by a vacuum of his making.
"Lucifer, dear, leave the girl alone.
She's clearly tired."
My mother, Lucinda, swept into the room,
the scent of her cloying perfume preceding her. She didn't look at me; she
never really did. She looked at the empire Thane had built, at the gold on the
walls, and at the man who provided it. She sat at the opposite end of the
table, checking her reflection in a silver spoon.
"The gala is in three days, Thane," she
said, her voice bright and artificial. "Thea needs to be well-rested. I've
already contacted the stylist. We're going for something... angelic. White lace,
perhaps?"
Lucifer's gaze never left mine, even as he
answered her. "No. Not white. Thea has outgrown white, hasn't she, princess?"
A slow, predatory smirk spread across his
face. "She will wear red. Deep, blood-red silk. I want everyone to see exactly
what kind of woman is growing up under my roof."
The implication felt like a brand. I felt
the heat rise to my cheeks, a mixture of shame and a terrifying, forbidden
thrill. He wasn't just my guardian; he was my architect. He was stripping away
the innocence I had tried so hard to protect, layer by layer, until there was
nothing left but the creature he wanted me to be.
"Red? Isn't that a bit... bold?" Lucinda
asked, finally looking my way with a flicker of annoyance.
"It is perfect," Lucifer countered, his
tone final. "Now, go. You have school. And Thea?"
I paused at the doorway, clutching my bag.
"Don't let anyone else touch what I've
marked."
Varn State High School felt like a
different planet. Here, the halls were filled with the mundane drama of
teenagers-college applications, football games, and petty heartbreaks. But as I
walked through the corridors, my two shadows, Varto and Marek, looming behind
me, I felt like an alien.
The whispers started the moment I entered.
"Look at her. She looks like she's seen a
ghost."
"Did you hear? Her father closed down
another factory in the Bronx. Three thousand people out of work."
"Stay away from her. The Donatello curse is
real."
I ignored them, my mind a fractured mess
of Lucifer's touch and Mayia's warnings. I found myself looking for Nick. I
needed a shred of normalcy, a reminder that there was a world outside the
Rector mansion where men didn't treat women like property to be broken.
I found him by his locker. He looked up,
his honey-colored eyes lighting up for a brief second before he saw the guards
behind me. The light vanished, replaced by a guarded caution.
"Thea," he said softly as I approached.
"You okay? You look... pale."
"I'm fine, Nick," I said, trying to force
a smile. "About the assignment... I have some notes on the 1920s trade embargoes.
Do you want to go over them in the library during lunch?"
Nick glanced at Varto, who was watching us
with the blank, unblinking stare of a shark. "I don't know, Thea. Is it... safe?"
"Safe?" I asked, a bitter laugh escaping
my lips. "Nowhere is safe, Nick. But the library is quiet."
For thirty minutes in the library, I felt
a ghost of a life I could have had. Nick was kind. He listened. He didn't look
at me like I was a piece of meat or a political asset. He looked at me like a
girl.
"You have a smudge of ink on your cheek,"
he said, reaching out instinctively.
His fingers were inches from my face when
a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder.
Varto didn't say a word. He didn't have
to. The sheer mass of him, the way he loomed over Nick, was enough. Nick's face
went white. He pulled his hand back as if he'd been burned.
"Step back, kid," Varto rumbled. "Keep
your hands to yourself."
"He was just helping me!" I snapped,
standing up, my chair screeching against the linoleum. "Leave him alone,
Varto!"
Varto didn't even look at me. His eyes
were on Nick. "The Master's orders are clear. No contact. Move along."
Nick looked at me, a mixture of pity and
fear in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Thea. I can't... I can't do this."
He gathered his books and practically ran
out of the library. I stood there, trembling with a rage so hot it made my
vision blur. I turned on Varto, poking my finger into his rock-hard chest.
"You're a monster! You're both monsters!"
Varto remained unmoved. "I'm a bodyguard,
Miss Thea. And I'm protecting what belongs to Mr. Rector. If I were you, I'd be
careful. He doesn't like it when his property gets... agitated."
I sank back into my chair, the silence of
the library feeling like a tomb. I wasn't just a student. I wasn't just a
daughter. I was a prisoner in a New York palace, and the bars were made of the
very people meant to keep me safe.
I pulled out my phone and messaged Mayia.
He's everywhere, May. Even at school. I
can't breathe.
Her reply came seconds later.
Then learn to breathe underwater, Nessa.
We're working on a plan. Just hold on. Don't let him break you.
