Page 16 of The Pawn

“What are you… How…” I can’t form the words. My heart has dropped to my stomach, the blood drained from my face.

It’s my mother’s ring.

“Pretty, isn’t it? Simple. She liked it,” he says.

“How do you have it?” I manage to ask.

“I have my ways. Bet you thought it was lost in the fire. I wouldn’t let that happen. Now, I won’t kneel to ask because I’m not asking, Allegra.”

My focus moves from the ring to his face.

“You’ll be my wife. It’s the cleanest, simplest way. Oh, and it’s the only way you get to stay alive.”

Her blood still stains the ring. I try to force the image of it on her hand out of my mind. Her hand that was missing four of its fingers already.

I think about what they did to her. How they tortured her. I try to draw strength from my anger because if I don’t get angry, I’m going to cower and die.

“I’d rather die than help you take over my family. My family that you murdered.”

“So dramatic. Like I said, I’m not asking.” He puts the ring back in his pocket. I exhale, grateful it’s out of sight. He walks toward the table at the far end of the room. A pristinewhite silk cloth has been laid over something. Was it here when I first got here? I didn’t notice it.

Malek dramatically sweeps the cloth away, but he’s standing between me and whatever it is he’s uncovered so I can’t see it.

“No, not asking,” he says, head bowed to look at what was under the cloth. My stomach tightens and my heart thuds against my chest in anticipation because if he could get her ring, what else does he have? What other horror? “Do you know what else I salvaged, Allegra? Before your father could destroy it?”

I twist against the iron grip of the soldier at my back as Malek begins to turn because I can see the edges of the thing behind him, and I do know what he salvaged. I know.

“I wasn’t sure if it wouldn’t come in handy.”

He turns fully facing me. My vision starts to blur. Because I don’t look at the thing he’s holding. Not yet. My eyes are locked on what’s behind him.

The butcher’s block. Thick, heavy wood stained a red so dark it looks black.

My mother’s blood.

My blood.

My mouth is dry. I lick my lips, feeling myself tremble when he’s standing a few inches from me, holding that butcher knife between us. Nothing special. Old. The handle worn in places. The blade though, sharp as can be.

I’m shaking.

A good little victim.

A godsend one of the soldiers had said. It goes quicker when it’s sharp.

What godsend when they’re chopping off one finger at a time?

Less messy, he’d said.

No. Still messy. Still so fucking messy.

“You remember it! I’m glad.”

I blink, focus my gaze on him, not the knife. Not the memories that come with it. Not the way the nub of my finger begins to ache, as if it, too, remembers and is afraid. Because I am afraid.

“What the hell do you want?” I scream, my voice high as terror takes root inside me.

“I just told you. Your hand. In marriage of course,” he adds, casually playing with the butcher’s knife between us. “You have an hour to think it over. Say yes, and you’ll be just fine. Or say no and we’ll have some fun first, because it’s a matter of when, not if, Allegra. We’ll start with your right hand. So it matches your left.”