Page 101 of Degradation

Sunrise comes too soon.

It streams in through the half-drawn curtains, warming my face enough to wake me.

I have a pounding headache and greater sense of dread than I think I’ve ever had. Whatever is going on, however this plays out, there will be serious consequences for all of us.

Antonio was as good as his word and he gets up from the floor, stretches with a groan, and acts like all this is perfectly normal behaviour.

He fixes his clothes in the gilded mirror before I hear his boots turning in my direction. “Remember what I said, Paitlyn. Remember.” He says, placing his hand on my shoulder.

I nod back, feeling both despair and hope mingling inside me.

“And whatever you do, don’t repeat a word of it to anyone. Not the maids, not the guards, and especially not your mother.”

I nod again. I won’t. I won’t say a word. It’s too great a risk to even consider it.

The doors slide open so quickly I recoil in surprise.

My husband takes a big step inside, like he expects to find Antonio fucking me still. Too bad, you bastard. Too fucking bad.

I clench my jaw, pulling the covers up to hide myself. I still have the gown on but underneath, I feel exposed. I feel every inch the cheap little whore he wants to make of me.

“Well?” Gunther asks and I can hear the smirk in his voice. “Did my wife play her part?”

Antonio doesn’t take his hand from me. It feels like he can feel how much I’m crumbling. But he also doesn’t reply to Gunther. He just turns and stalks out as if the very question is an insult to him.

I know Devin is there, I know he’s beyond the doors. I don’t want to think of what he must imagine happened. I don’t want to contemplate how he too must see me.

My tears start falling more and I bury my face, silently giving into my despair.

Devin

“Well? Did my wife play her part?”

I know exactly what the fucker is asking, what he wants to know. Did Paitlyn fuck him? Did she whore herself out well enough for this arsehole to be satisfied?

I don’t know who the fuck he is, I don’t know what power he has, but evidently, he’s a big enough player for Gunther to give him so much playtime.

Before I realise I’m doing it, I’m silently stalking after the man, following him down the hallway, down the steps. I don’t know why he’s up this early, why Gunther didn’t leave him to enjoy Paitlyn a little longer, but the benefit is that the Palace is deserted. There’s no one around but him and me.

I slide my hand into my pocket, pulling out the tiny slip knife.

I can hear his steps on the polished floor ahead of me and I know he can’t hear mine.

He’s twenty paces in front of me. He walks with purpose; he gives off the feeling that he owns the world. Whoever the fuck he is, he’ll be dead within the hour, if I have anything to say about it.

My fingers curl around the knife in my pocket, the familiar weight of it grounding me as rage threatens to blur my vision. The metal is warm from my body heat, and I can feel every groove in the handle through the fabric. I’ve killed with this blade before. It’s silent. Clean. Unlike the pistol holstered at my hip, which would almost certainly wake half the palace and bring guards running before I could even savour the moment.

He turns left down the east corridor, and I follow, my steps measured and careful. The palace feels like a tomb this early, all shadows and whispers, and perfect for what needs to be done. Perfect for justice.

Because that’s what this is, justice. Not jealousy. Not the sick, twisting thing in my gut that makes me want to tear him apart with my bare hands. Justice for the insult he’s committed, for the way he’s contaminated something pure.

His shoulders are back, his stride long and unhurried, like he owns every stone beneath his feet. Like he’s conquered something worth conquering.

The sight of it sends fresh fury coursing through my veins. How dare he? How dare he walk through these halls like he’s some sort of victor.

I quicken my pace, closing the distance between us. Fifteen paces. Ten. The knife seems to pulse in my grip, eager for blood, for the satisfying resistance of flesh giving way to steel. I can already picture it, the blade sliding between his ribs, the shocked gasp he’ll make, the way his arrogant smirk will melt into confusion and then nothing at all.

He rounds another corner, and I follow, my heartbeat hammering so loud I’m surprised he can’t hear it. This corridor is even more isolated, lined with storage rooms and servant quarters that won’t be occupied for another hour at least. Perfect. As if fate itself is conspiring to help me right this wrong.