Page 2 of Degradation (The Brethren Lords #3)
Pailtyn
T he 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 be so 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.
He thankfully doesn’t live with us but he’s here often enough to ensure he has total control over our day-to-day existence.
I know he’s trying to prove a point. That he’s in a petty little fight with my Guardian because our Grand Master deemed him an unsuitable candidate to ensure mine and my mother’s safety after my father died.
“We are learning, Pearce,” My mother says, her voice calm, placating, just like usual. “Madame Petale was just teaching Paitlyn about marital arts.”
Pearce snorts, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. “Is that so? Well, let’s see what she’s learned, then.”
He strides over to me, picking up the wooden instrument that we so often choose to ignore. It’s meant to replicate a man’s penis. I’ve often wondered how accurate the thing really is but I guess if I’m lucky enough to be married I’ll find that out for myself.
“Show me how well you can suck a cock, niece.” He says, smirking.
My cheeks flush with humiliation, but I don’t dare glare at him. I’ve felt the sting of his hand too many times to risk it.
My mother’s eyes meet mine, with a silent plea in their depths. She hates this as much as I do, but since my father died, she’s almost as powerless as I am. We both know the consequences of disobedience.
“Paitlyn is very accomplished,” My mother says, her voice barely above a whisper. She looks pointedly at me, and I know what I have to do. That I have to perform.
Pearce smirks, tossing the wood at my face, only, I fail to catch it, and it clangs to the floor with a heavy thud.
“Go on then.” He says, tauntingly.
I pick up the thing, my fingers trembling slightly as I wrap them around the smooth wood. I try to block out my uncle’s sneering face, try to pretend I’m alone in my room, that this is just a silly game I’m playing by myself.
I bring the polished wood to my mouth, my lips parting as I take it in, my cheeks hollowing as I mimic the act I’ve been taught.
Pearce narrows his eyes, clearly wanting to find fault and, as I start to slide the toy further back, he pushes my hand, forcing it all the way with a brutality that makes me instantly gag.
He’s wearing gloves, he always has to wear gloves when he’s around me, but that doesn’t stop the disgust creeping along my skin at the contact.
“There you go.” He grins, with a look that says he’s achieved what he wanted. “No husband wants a wife that only puts in half the effort.”
I look up, my eyes tearing as he holds the thing there, as he refuses to let me catch my breath.
“A man wants to watch his wife choke, Paitlyn. He wants to watch her suffer. That is what gives us pleasure, that is what ensures we know you bitches understand your place.”
I can’t even nod. I can’t even respond. My nostrils flare, I try to get the air in and just as I think he might willingly let me die, he pulls the thing out, leaving a trail of saliva down my chin, down my chest.
He tuts, wiping it with his thumb, dragging the leather covered digit down between my breasts in such a degrading way.
“Do try better next time, Paitlyn. For your own sake, if not for anyone else’s.”
I want to snap back. I want to call him out. But I don’t dare. I just nod placidly and wait for him to strut back out and leave us to it.