Page 41 of Degradation (The Brethren Lords #3)

Pailtyn

I know I shouldn’t have drunk as much as I have, but I want to numb the pain, numb whatever the hell is coming next. Because there is always a next at these parties. And they always involve me.

The servant’s screams make my ears hurt, make my skin erupt into goosebumps.

I’m stood beside Gunther’s ridiculous throne., wearing a red lingerie set that he specifically chose, and I’m watching, just as everyone else in this room is watching, as my husband is torturing the man unfortunate enough to have gotten his attention.

The whip slices through the air, practically singing as it comes down on his flesh. And as it makes contact, we all see the way his skin splits, the way blood immediately starts pouring out.

“Pretty like a river.” Gunther laughs, shoving the leather into it, smearing the man’s blood further.

“Please.” He sobs. “Please, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Chapter Lord, I won’t do it again. I won’t.”

Gunther grabs a handful of the broken glass, and he rams it into the man’s mouth. “Shut up.” He says. “Shut up.”

I don’t want to think what would happen to the man if he swallows it. Will it slice his insides? Will it rip up his stomach? His intestines?

I shudder at the thought.

Gunther’s meaty fist connecting with the servant’s jaw. The sound is sickening, creating a dull thud that seems to reverberate through the room.

The servant stumbles back, but Gunther grabs him by the collar, pulling him upright before delivering another punch.

I look around the room, desperate for someone to intervene, but all I see are faces twisted in either cruel delight or turned away in cowardly avoidance.

Gunther’s breath comes in ragged gasps as he continues his assault, each blow more vicious than the last. The servant is barely conscious, his body limp and battered, but Gunther shows no signs of stopping.

He’s grinning, laughing, enjoying every moment of his barbarity.

A sickening sense of dread washes over me as I realize what he wants, what he’s been building towards this entire time.

I can’t look. I can’t watch. But I also can’t shut it out.

We all hear the snap, the crunch of bone, and then the sound of a body hitting the floor with such finality it feels like a crescendo. The servant lays now with one leg kicking out to the right, his arms splayed, and his head stuck at an impossible angle for anyone living to make.

It feels like everything stills, like the room collectively holds its breath. Are they enthralled by this or as horrified as I am?

“Paitlyn.” Gunther barks, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. “Get over here.”

My feet feel like lead as I make my way towards him, each step an effort of will I can barely muster. I can feel the weight of everyone’s gaze on me, their eyes like physical touches, some leering, some pitying, but all of it unwanted.

I stop a few feet away from Gunther, close enough to see the flecks of blood on his knuckles, the wild gleam still in his eyes.

“Kneel.” he commands, gesturing to the floor where the spilled drink has pooled.

I hesitate, a small act of defiance that I know will cost me later.

Gunther’s eyes narrow, his lips curling into a snarl. “I said, kneel.” he growls.

I lower myself to the floor. The smell of alcohol is overpowering, mixing with the coppery tang of blood in the air. I can feel the heat of Gunther’s gaze on the back of my neck, the weight of his expectation pressing down on me like a physical force.

“Lick it up,” he orders, his voice laced with cruel amusement.

A wave of humiliation crashes over me, threatening to drown me in its intensity. I can feel the eyes of the guests on me, their gazes burning into my skin like brands. I can hear their laughter, their jeers, their whispered comments.

But worst of all, I can feel Devin’s gaze, steady and unyielding as he witnesses my degradation. I don’t know why but that fact shames me more.

I lean forward, my tongue touching the cold amber liquid.

The taste is bitter, burning my throat as I swallow.

I try to block out the sounds around me, the laughter, the jeers, the cruel comments that are steadily rising.

I try to pretend that I’m somewhere else, anywhere but here, but the reality of my situation is inescapable.

Gunther’s laughter rings out above the noise, a harsh, mocking sound that grates against my fragile nerves. “That’s it, pet,” he says, his voice now dripping with malice. “Lick it all up like the good little bitch you are.”

Tears sting my eyes, blurring my vision, but I blink them back, refusing to let them fall. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I won’t give any of them the satisfaction.

Finally, the last of the liquid is gone. I sit back on my heels, my head bowed, my breath coming in ragged, nasty little gasps. I can feel the weight of Gunther’s gaze on me, the smug satisfaction radiating off him like a physical force.

“Good girl,” he says, his voice dripping with condescension. He turns to his friends with that cruel smile still playing on his lips. “Isn’t she a good little pet?”

His friends laugh, their eyes gleaming with amusement as they look down at me. I can feel the heat of their gazes, the weight of their mockery, and it takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to flinch away from them.

Gunther grabs my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh as he pulls me to my feet. I stumble, my legs weak and unsteady, but he holds me upright, his grip like a vice. “Time for the main event.” He says, his voice laced with anticipation.

A shiver runs down my spine as I realize what he means. The beating and murder were just the warm-up, the appetizer before the main course.

Now comes the real entertainment, the part where I’m always the star attraction.

Gunther leads me to the centre of the room, his grip never wavering. The guests part before us, forming a circle around us. I can feel the weight of their gazes, the intensity of their expectation of what’s to come.

But I know better than to try and run. I know that there’s no escape, no reprieve from the nightmare that’s about to unfold. I know that I’m trapped, that I’m nothing but a plaything for my husband’s amusement.

And so I stand there, my heart pounding in my chest, my breath coming in ragged gasps, as Gunther begins sliding the bra straps off my shoulders, down my body, exposing me to all those nasty eager eyes.

In my mind, I try to slip away, to disappear, but I can’t do it.

He slaps my breasts, one after another, hitting them enough to make me hiss.

“Founder.” He mutters, like it’s an insult.

I don’t say anything back.

I don’t do anything but take his abuse.

He takes his belt off, forcing me to my knees and wraps it around my throat, like I’m a dog. With one hand he tears the thong from me then he slaps my arse cheek so hard I hiss.

“Crawl.” He orders as his friends all start to laugh.

I know doing it will expose more of me, will expose all of my most intimate parts but I don’t have a choice, do I? I drop my gaze, staring at the polished tiles, focusing on the pattern of them as my face burns with the humiliation.

He makes me do three rounds, three nice big loops of the room. I’m cheered on, jeered at, my arse is slapped by various different hands, and I’m called a ‘good bitch’ over and over and over.

I’m so close to tears, so close to collapsing, but I don’t want to give my husband the satisfaction.

“What do you say?” Gunther says, “Doesn’t she make a fine wife?”

Enough of the men seem to agree with him. Even a few of the women join in. I wonder if they only do it to make themselves more amenable, so they’ll be spared some torture.

He yanks the belt hard enough that I slam into his side. “What do you think, Pearce?” He says and that name makes my blood run cold.

No. Please no. Please let me be mistaken, let this be a coincidence or…

My heart slams into my chest as I see him stood, staring at me. He doesn’t look shocked, but he doesn’t look proud either. My anger rages as I stare back at him because he’s the one who put me here, he’s the one who did this, who ensured this.

Does it not give him pride to see his handiwork, is that it?

Does it not make him happy to see the reality of what my life is because of his machinations?

He’s wearing his usual suit, and yet, something about his attire, about his hair, looks off. He’s not his usual immaculate self. He looks unkempt. He looks like he’s been dragged here, rather than invited.

“Well?” Gunther asks. “Do you not think your niece makes a fine wife?”

Pearce narrows his eyes slightly and shrugs as if I’m no consequence to him, as if I mean nothing. “She’s good breeding stock.” He replies. “As long as she’s satisfying you…”

“Satisfying?” Gunther spits. “What would be satisfying is when I receive the money owed to me as the bride-price.”

Pearce frowns. All the men around us do. What the fuck is he talking about? A bride price is paid by the groom to the bride’s family, not the other way around. It’s a way lesser Lords can buy their way into a more prestigious standing.

“Chapter Lord…” Pearce begins but the look on Gunther’s face seems to silence him.

“You Heseltine’s owe me.” Gunther snaps. “You owe me big time and I want my money.”

I note that no one points out that Pearce is not technically a Heseltine. That he’s my mother’s brother and therefore, he doesn’t have an ounce of Founder blood in his shitty veins.

Pearce squirms, stupidly muttering something under his breath, and though none of us can hear the words, Gunther doesn’t miss it.

He lashes out, sending a load of glasses smashing to the floor. I hiss as tiny little shards cut into my skin, as they bury themselves into so much of my exposed flesh.

Gunther pushes me aside, pushes me hard, and I land in a pile of nasty little fragments.

His fingers snatch at something beside me and he’s too quick for me to see, too quick for anyone to react.

Pearce howls, covering his face as Gunther slices through the air.

“Give me my money.” My husband spits. “Give me what I am owed.”

Blood streams out through Pearce’s fingers, it pours down, onto that crisp silk shirt. He stumbles back, falls down onto his arse.

“I’ll, I’ll sort it.” He stammers, for once losing that overconfident, arrogant drawl.

“You better.” Gunther replies, before he sinks back into his throne and takes a long, languid sip of his drink.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I stay where I am, watching my uncle scramble for the door, There’s a deep wound now splitting his face in two, and I’ll admit, there is a sense of satisfaction in seeing him hurt, in seeing him cut up, and maimed.

It’s not nearly enough to feel close to revenge but this moment here is a start.