Page 8

The pieces of me stitched together in my old room. It appeared untouched, a mausoleum frozen in time, as I slunk to my bed, crawled under the black blankets, and cried.

Fletcher’s words had sent me into a complete cyclone of muddled confusion.

I thought back to that day in the hills when he had shoved me into the group of Cidris. He hadn’t made eye contact with me. In fact, he had looked quite pensive. Was that through complete disinterest or because he couldn’t face what he had done?

And what would have happened if Fletcher had taken my hand that day and ran away with me?

My bruised wrists that day displayed how mangled my magic was.

And Fletcher had known of my condition. He had commented on it.

He had known using magic was not an option to escape.

Even if my magic were at full capacity, it was unpredictable and weak.

So he could have either exposed himself as a traitor, where they would have ripped him apart and whoever was first to drink my blood would know about my royal bloodline, or he could have played along.

My heart ached with each pound. I would have been royally fucked. Perhaps that had been Fletcher’s only option.

I weaved my hands through my hair, pulling up at the roots as I let out a broken cry.

I didn’t want to think that way! My mind rebelled against these merciful thoughts.

Fletcher had turned me in. He had farmed me.

He had thrown me into the cage and damned eighteen other people to that awful place. My people.

I hated everything about this conflict inside me. I could feel the truth of his words in my heart. In order to save me from the Cidris, he had needed to continue to act with them. And if that was the truth…

But what about that smile on his face when Cuddles had died?

Was that because it hadn’t registered as fast as it had to me?

Had that been a rouse to convince the men of his loyalty?

I had noticed his smile did not reach his eye, had not been the smile that I was used to.

But how could someone even fake a smile when a beloved creature like Cuddles died in front of them?

I groaned as I continued to relive the last couple months of torture. Seeing it through the lens of Fletcher caring, of protecting my magic from the hands of random Cidris who could have been using my magic this whole time…

God, if that was true… Fletcher had to endure farming the one person he loved…

Had that been why he had looked so haggard?

Had he felt the torture too? If what he said was true about the ritual, that he could feel my pain, my sadness…

me… had he felt the agony I went through in the cages?

The emptiness? The hatred? If my blood called to him the way he said it did, did that mean he felt the pain of being drained?

Had he been going through the same thing I had?

With the added layers of seeing me dying and desperate to kill him.

I daydreamed of him in his room, thinking about me as he drank my blood… Had he been dying?

I fell into a silent sob, thinking about the Fletcher who was still in love with me having to press that button.

Having to watch me slowly fade away in that cage.

Having to see countless men gawk at my nakedness while putting me through such torture.

If the roles were reversed, I knew I wouldn’t be able to handle that kind of responsibility.

I didn’t want to think about the Fletcher I had left behind dying along with me. I didn’t know if I’d be able to break that person’s heart. I didn’t know if I could hate that version of Fletcher.

Aldris had mentioned that whatever had happened in the last two months had been more traumatizing for Fletcher than it had been for me.

Could he feel me now? Could he feel me aching, desperate for what he had said to be true. I was being ripped into two separate pieces. Confused by the constant flipping back and forth between the Fletcher I hated and the Fletcher I had loved, the tears kept flowing .

“Ripley?” my mother’s voice chimed. “You’re back?”

I pulled off the covers, the lights embedded in the ceiling drowning my vision before my mother came into view. Her black hair was in shambles, as if she, too, had been exhausted from crying. She wore sweatpants and a loose t-shirt with dark makeup smeared around her obsidian eyes.

Just seeing her brought back the truths she had told me.

She hadn’t lied to me. She had told me flat out that Fletcher had been a member of the Cidris.

She had told me that I’d come to see who he really was and would want to obliterate him.

What else did she know? I couldn’t just believe Fletcher at face value, could I?

After he had tortured me for weeks on end without even a glimpse that he had some desire to still protect me?

No, I was smarter than that now. No one would pull the wool over my eyes ever again.

“Mother?” I called, arms outstretched for her.

She ran the few steps to me and brought me into a swift embrace. “Oh, my sweet berry, I’ve missed you so much.” She broke the hug to look me over, tugging at my cheeks, my arms, my legs. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you? ”

A part of me was relieved that Fletcher had taken away all the damage on my body. I didn’t want her to know that I had been in that facility. I didn’t want her to know she had been right. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Deary, why are you crying?”

Tears fell free. “H-He broke me.”

She didn’t say anything. She simply frowned, crawled under the covers, and held me for the next hour, gently whispering, “He’s an awful, awful man.”

When my tears ran dry, she got up, kissed my head, and made her way to the basement from where a lot of commotion soon emanated. I sighed and listened to the familiar song of her tinkering, letting my mind zone out for what felt like hours, falling back into the rhythm of my time in the cage.

Just as I was falling asleep, Mother popped her head in with a wide smile. “Ripley, I have a surprise for you.”

I sat up, rubbing my scalp, and forced a grim smile to my lips. “Really?” I croaked, gathering my russet hair into a low bun and wrapping it with a tie from my nightstand.

She nodded.

“What is it? ”

“It’s in the basement. I want to show you. But you have to close your eyes, okay?”

“Okay,” I said meekly. I could use a pick-me-up. It was so thoughtful of her to give me a welcome-home gift.

When I stepped out of my room, she wrapped a blindfold around my head and carefully guided me down the steps of the basement and into the middle of the floor. She squealed, “I’m so excited for you!”

“What is it?” I asked, the first true smile in two months creeping over my face.

She gently pulled my arm farther into the basement before saying, “Lift your leg and take one big step upward.”

“Okay,” I said cautiously. There was some sort of step, but I used my mother’s hand as leverage to keep myself balanced.

She rotated me to her by the hips. Her cold, lithe fingers took my hands as she said, “Almost ready.”

The delight in her voice stroked my excitement as a larger smile flourished over my face.

Her hands left me and two seconds later, something clamped down on both of my wrists with a powerful bite just before a loud crash rattled through me.

I ripped off the blindfold, only to be met with four walls of glass.

And right in front of me was that nasty red button that was used to activate the blood collector.