Page 38 of Inheritance

I stared at the food.

I wasn’t hungry. I wasn’t anything.

I just sat there, the chain cold around my ankle, the man’s silent pity lingering in the air long after he was gone.

I reached for the water, my hands unsteady, the chain at my ankle rattling with the movement. The first sip was cold, shocking against my dry throat. The second went down easier.

Then, footsteps.

Slow. Purposeful.

A whistle followed, tuneless and off-key, threading through the silence like something rotten.

I set the glass down with trembling hands.

Ivan stepped into view.

He strolled down the hall like he owned it, because he did. His hands were in his pockets, his shoulders loose, like this was just another uneventful moment.

I couldn’t look at him.

Couldn’t meet his eyes.

I stared at the floor instead, at the fine dust along the edges of the rug, at anything that wasn’t him.

He got closer.

The whistling stopped.

I felt him there, his shadow cutting across the floor in front of me. My fingers curled against my knee.

The door beside me creaked open, and he stepped inside.

The latch clicked shut behind him.

I stayed frozen, my gaze still on the floor, waiting until the silence felt real again.

Beyond the door, his voice rumbled. Low, coaxing, commanding. I couldn’t make out the words.

A woman giggled.

Minutes passed. Maybe more. My mind filled the silence with possibilities, each one worse than the last.

I heard the sharp chime of a belt buckle, rhythmically ringing like a bell.

Then, gagging. Choked coughing.

Then, wet, rhythmic slaps.

Sex.

I went rigid. Staring at the door, pulse hammering.

It went on. And on.

The sounds ebbed and swelled, the woman’s unrestrained moans turned to gasping, then to something more strained.

I shoved the images away, but they lingered, sticky and unwanted. In their place, fear coiled tight in my stomach.