Page 2 of Degradation

Why the fuck did she do this?

When I look at her face again, her beautiful features are twisted into something of pure hate.

“He deserved to die.” She spits. “He deserved it for what he did to me.”

I don’t recognise the person before me right now, I don’t recognise this avenging beast.

She raises the dagger, my dagger, and points it at her throat. Her face now morphed into such contempt, such hatred.

“I’d rather die than let that man touch me again.” She half-screeches. “I’d rather die than let any of your arseholes touch me again.”

Her words, her anger, it’s too real, too raw to be pretend.

Has she been playing me this entire time? Was that what this was? Was she tricking me, luring me in? Turning me into her little pet monkey?

She never told me she loved me. When I whispered them to her, she never said those words back, did she? Christ, I’m a fool. A stupid fucking fool.

And the fact she’s used my dagger, my fucking dagger. My heart twists, my own fury explodes.

She manipulated me. She used me. I don’t doubt if she hadn’t been caught red-handed, then I would be the one going down for this. Enough of the guards know who that dagger belongs to. Enough of them will recognise the hilt.

She set me up. This bitch set me up.

She screams out, dragging the knife across her throat and half of me can’t wait to see her bleed out. But the other half wants to make her pay, wants to make her truly suffer.

The guards nearest are quick to bring her down, to incapacitate her, because as always, she’s too slow for us. I see as she falls, as she lands in that same pool of now congealing blood.

And then something in me snaps. That last tangible grip on reality goes. I don’t consciously move, I don’t consciously do any of it, but I’m lashing out, going completely and utterly berserk.

She fucking killed him.

She killed him and she set me up.

Pailtyn

The sun is a weak, pale thing as it struggles to pierce the heavy drapes of our drawing room. My mother stands by the window, her gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the glass, beyond the formal gardens, beyond our ridiculously gilded cage.

My tutor, Madame Petale, drones on in her nasal voice. Today’s lesson is focusing on the various ways to please a man. I try not to roll my eyes, try not to let the sigh building in my chest escape my lips. This is the third time this week we’ve covered this particular topic. As if my future husband will beso unimaginative that I’ll need to cycle through the same tired tricks to keep his interest.

“Remember, my dear,” Madame Petale says, her eyes magnified behind her overly thick glasses, “a happy husband makes for a happy home. And a happy home is a peaceful home.”

I want to tell her that a peaceful home is one where the wife isn’t forced to perform like a trained pet, but I bite my tongue. My mother always says my cheek will be the death of me, but we both know where I got it from. After all, the apple doesn’t fall that far from the tree.

“Paitlyn,” My mother says, turning from the window, her eyes meeting mine. There’s a softness there, a warmth she reserves only for me. “You’ll be grateful for Madame Petale’s teachings on your wedding night.”

I can’t help the scoff that escapes me. “At this rate, I’ll be an old spinster before that day arrives. We’ve been locked away so long, I doubt anyone even remembers we exist.”

My mother laughs, a sound like tinkling bells, light and carefree. It’s a sound I don’t hear often enough. “No one forgets the Heseltines, dear. And certainly, no one will forget your pretty face.”

The compliment makes me squirm. I know I’m attractive; after all, my mother has spent a fortune to ensure it. But beauty is a double-edged sword, a weapon I’ve yet to learn how to wield effectively because I’ve been locked up in this bloody house like a princess in an ivory tower.

The sound of heavy footsteps echoes down the hall, and my stomach clenches. I know that the arrogant gait only too well. My uncle, Pearce, walks in, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the scene before him.

“Why all the merriment?” he asks, his voice its usual cold, icy tone. “Shouldn’t you be learning something useful?”

He’s nine years older than my mother, and his balding hairline does nothing to help the harshness of his appearance. He’s dressed in his usual tweed waistcoat and I’m certain his wife is the reason why. She barely graces us with her presence but whenever she does, she too, is dressed in tweed, as if it’s the only fabric acceptable to be seen in.

I hate him. I hate the way he looks at me, the way he speaks to me, the way he lords his power over me. If it were just Mother and me, life would be, well, not happy exactly, but certainly more bearable.