Taken

by Natasha Knight

  Because what that streak of blood means is that she failed the examination. This one isn’t a virgin.

  I fist the cloth and bare her feet, her knees, thighs, pussy. That’s when I look down, when I feel that thick mound of dark curls at my fingers.

  She stiffens, exhales audibly, and if I listen hard, I think I can hear her scream on the inside.

  “Lower your gaze,” I tell her, squeezing the hair, making her wince.

  She lifts her chin higher, and I see the workings of her throat as she swallows.

  “Do as he says!”

  It’s her father. And I want to kill him for his intrusion. She’s mine. I will be the one to teach her. I will be the one to punish her.

  “Lower. Your. Gaze.”

  I curl my fingers down to cup her pussy.

  She falters, and for the first time, I see the terror in her eyes. It overtakes the hate. She blinks, her spine bends, and finally, she drops her gaze to her naked feet.

  I release her, step back, and watch the sheath drop to cover her. I feel her on my fingers, and I don’t wipe the damp away.

  “Her name?”

  “Helena, sir.”

  It must burn to call a man half your age sir.

  “Helena.” I try it out. I think I’ll keep it. “What’s this?” I pick up the silver streak of hair.

  “It grows that way. She’s had it since she was a small child. It’s in my wife’s family.”

  Yes, it is. I remember now.

  And I know she’s the one I have to take. Perfectly imperfect. Opposite her sisters.

  Flawed.

  Her hair feels like silk in my hand. Heavy, smooth silk.

  I nod, turn my back.

  “Her,” I say and walk out of the room.

  2

  Helena

  I’m given one hour to say good-bye.

  I pack no clothes. I take nothing personal. I’m not allowed, not even a single photograph, not my books, nothing.

  This is harder than I thought. Maybe I’m not as strong as I thought.

  Sebastian Scafoni chose me.

  I am to be the next Willow Girl.

  There was no way I should have been picked—not with my sisters among the pickings, not with the blood marking my sheath—and I am unprepared.

  I’m wearing a black dress. It’s my funeral dress. Yes, at twenty-one, I own a designated funeral dress. It’s an A-line that covers me from just below my knees right up to my neck. Lace creates a complicated pattern along my collarbones and down my arms that’s only relieved in a ruffle at my throat and wrists.

  It’s pretty, but I didn’t choose it to look pretty. I chose it because this occasion, it’s like a funeral and I want them all—Willow and Scafoni alike—to know I am in mourning.

  Along with the dress, I put on my favorite Dr. Martens. I’ve had them forever and they look like it, but like I said, I’m not going for pretty.

  Inside the Dr. Martens I’ve slipped my pocketknife, and to finish off my look, my hair’s in a tight ponytail and I’m wearing no makeup.

  And for as defiant as I may appear, I’m sitting on the edge of my bed and hugging my pillow to myself and trying not to cry.

  Crap.

  What a fool I am, thinking myself stronger than my sisters. Better able to survive this.

  What he did in the library, how he…handled me, for lack of a better word—it makes me burn with humiliation. But also something else. Something that makes no sense. And if he can make me feel so confused in a matter of moments, what will he do in years?

  What will be left of me when this is finished?

  I shove the thought from my mind.

  I can’t dwell there. I won’t.

  As much as I try not to, my mind wanders to the last Willow Girl. She was my mother’s older sister. I was five when she came home, and I remember how she looked when she did. I remember how afraid of her I’d been because I’d thought her a ghost.

  And she became one, soon enough. I still remember how she smelled when I went up to the attic that late summer night.

  My bedroom door opens, and I quickly wipe the tears off my face and stand, dropping the pillow back on the bed and turning to see my mother wheeling my Great-aunt Helena into my room.

  It takes all I have not to break down when I see her. Because if I’m to be gone for three years, I know I won’t ever see her again.

  “Close the door,” Aunt Helena instructs my mother sharply.

  “Aunty—” my mother starts.

  My aunt doesn’t take her eyes off me. Even at her age, they’re fierce. And I’ve never been able to figure out why she’s never liked my mother.

  “Leave us alone,” she says.

  Without another word, my mother closes the door.

  I go to her, wheel her forward. She has an old-fashioned chair and it’s unwieldy, but she refuses a new one, one more comfortable.

  Once I have her closer to the edge of the bed, I sit and face her. She reaches out her hands, and I set mine in hers. The contrast in youth and age is striking, hers like parchment, the bone delicate. Mine youthful. Full of life.

  “I knew he would choose you,” she says.

  And this time, I do cry. I wipe the back of one hand across my face.

  She watches me, and she’s so strong. She doesn’t shed a single tear. I’ve never seen her cry, in fact. Not once.

  “There’s a reason it was you, child.”

  She squeezes my hands and makes me look at her. Her hair, although it’s thinned out, is still as black as mine, that silver streak as bright. She’s grown smaller, though. I guess I have to remember I’m lucky to have had her this long. She’s almost a century old.

  “I’m scared,” I say, lowering my gaze when I do, ashamed of my fear when she is so strong.

  She squeezes my hands, and I look up again.

  “I was scared when it was me.”

  “You’re the strongest woman I know.”

  “Not then. Not at first. I was afraid just like you are. But our ancestors watched over me, and they are watching over you now. They chose you, Helena. The Willow ancestors chose you.”

  She lets go of my hands, and I watch how hers tremble as she reaches into the high neck of her dress to pull out a chain I’ve not seen before. She always wears turtleneck sweaters or dresses, always has her neck covered, even in summer. She holds the thing in the palm of her hand and studies it. I wish I could see her eyes, know what she’s thinking.

  But when she snaps the chain with a quick strength I didn’t know she still had, I gasp in surprise. She lets it slide through her fingers and onto the floor and looks at me, opening her palm.

  I look down at the ring there, the strangest ring I’ve ever seen.

  The band itself is a yellow white, and there are three stones on it. Three jagged amethysts so dark, they’re a purple-black. She turns the ring, and I lean in closer because there’s a small skull carved into one side of it.

  “It’s made of bone,” she says, her eyes wide when I look at her.

  “Bone?” I’m a little creeped out, honestly.

  “Know that not every Willow Girl is broken by them. I wasn’t. I took from them as they took from me and I survived.”

  She takes the ring and slides it onto my middle finger. It’s a perfect fit. She then closes her hand over it, squeezes and brings her face closer to mine.

  “It’s up to you, Helena. Destroy their line and end this. It’s why you were chosen. It’s time to finish with this insanity.”

  My mouth falls open.

  Before I can even fully process what she has said, the door opens. It’s my father and behind him, my sisters, all in their jeans and T-shirts, hair in braids, looking like it’s a normal day. Like what just took place in the library didn’t happen at all. Like I’m not wearing my funeral dress waiting to be taken.

  “The car is here.”

  I draw back and look at my aunt again. I wonder at the faith she’s putting in me, because she’s wro
ng. I’m not that strong.

  She nods once, and I hug her, and she holds me so tight that she presses tears from my eyes.

  “You have to hate them to survive them, child. To destroy them,” she whispers before pulling back. “Remember to hate them.”

  I stand and take one last look at her, straighten my spine, and walk out the door, out of my house, and into the keeping of my enemy.

  I’m driven in a luxury SUV by a driver with a face as stony as those carved into Mt. Rushmore two hours to a small, private airfield I didn’t know existed.

  It’s dark when we arrive, although not as dark as the Willow property. No light pollution there. Here, the lights of the airport, even though it’s small, spoil the night sky.

  It’s easier now that I’m out of the house. Easier not to have to look at my sisters’ faces, my parents’ faces.

  But as the car slows to turn through the gradually opening gates and I see the other SUVs there, the gathering of people in the headlights, the waiting jet, my trepidation grows.

  I am alone.

  With my thumb I touch my aunt’s ring and think about what she said. I try to imagine her younger, my age, and in the same position, and I can. Except that she’s a much stronger version of me. A fiercer one.

  The driver slows to a stop, and the heads of two men and one woman turn to watch.

  It’s the brothers, Ethan and Gregory. I know their names.

  They’re in the same suits they wore to the ceremony. Sebastian is talking with the pilot. He hasn’t bothered to look in my direction. I guess he has all the time in the world.

  Ethan is already grinning like a hyena. Do hyena’s grin? I guess I picture him as that sort of animal. A scavenger.

  “There’s a reason it was you, child.”

  Maybe my aunt is right. Maybe it’s best I’m the Willow Girl.

  But I can’t help the feeling that I’m somehow expendable. Like if I don’t survive, my family will. They’ll go on without me, and when the next generation comes of age, the library will again be lit with a thousand candles as one of my sisters puts her daughters on their designated blocks, thanking her lucky stars she wasn’t the Willow Girl.

  Will I even be there to witness it?

  I know I’m different than my sisters, pretty much in every way. The outside is just a reflection of everything inside. I’m the one they look up to, the one they used to come to when they had a bad dream, the one who has always protected them.

  But right now, I don’t feel very strong.

  Lucinda Scafoni is wearing a pair of wide-legged, high-waisted black pants with a cream-colored blouse. Her dark hair is pinned into a bun, and it’s so tight that it distorts her face a little. Her eyes are narrow, calculated slits as she watches me, unblinking.

  I wonder if she can see through the tinted windows because she’s looking right at me.

  Gregory, the youngest Scafoni, is as handsome as Sebastian. I’d know they were brothers just from the resemblance in features.

  Not Ethan, though. Ethan looks very different.

  Gregory simply stands looking on, almost bored, giving away nothing of what he’s thinking, and something tells me to be careful with him. He’s not as uninterested as he appears.

  The driver opens my door and doesn’t quite meet my eyes. He’s Italian too, I can tell. They all have that olive skin and dark hair that belongs to the Mediterranean-born. I wonder if he even speaks English because he doesn’t look like an American-Italian.

  But what do I know about American-Italians? I was born and grew up in the Midwest. I’ve traveled some with my family, but those occasions were rare. My parents usually went places alone and left us safely tucked away on the property.

  I guess I understand why now.

  It’s when I step out of the SUV and the driver shuts the door that Sebastian finishes with the pilot and finally deigns to look my way. His gaze sweeps my dress, hovers at my choice of footwear, then meets my eyes.

  One side of his mouth curves upward.

  I’ve already seen that look, and I hate it. It’s his victory smirk. His I scare you and I know it triumph.

  I steel my spine and straighten. In that instant, I decide I can do it. That I must do it. It’s him or me. Survival of the fittest.

  And I have to be the fittest.

  From my periphery, I see that his mother—bored, I guess—turns and heads up the jet stairs, giving the order to “Bring her,” as she disappears into the plane.

  The driver takes hold of my arm when I don’t move.

  The three brothers stand watching me, and it takes all I have to keep my eyes locked on Sebastian’s as I’m made to close the distance between us.

  I’m an idiot because I feel that pang of attraction, like I did when I first saw him, even through the hate.

  “Where are you taking me?” I ask when I stand before him.

  I didn’t think about this part, didn’t think I’d be a plane ride away from my family.

  “You don’t speak unless spoken to, Willow Girl,” Ethan says, cocking his head to the side as if daring me to challenge him.

  I raise my head and narrow my eyes. My hands fist at my sides. He takes a step toward me.

  “I wasn’t speaking to you,” I say.

  Gregory chuckles, but my heart races as Ethan’s face reddens.

  I’m grateful that before I have to back away, Sebastian’s hand closes over his shoulder. All I can do is look at it and think how big it is.

  “Get on the plane, Ethan.”

  “She needs to learn—”

  “I’ll take care of it. Go on.”

  Ethan’s black eyes haven’t left mine during this exchange. I force my lips into a smirk.

  He shoves Sebastian’s hand off and leans his face into mine.

  “Smile now, whore. You won’t be when it’s my turn to have you.”

  Being called a whore by him doesn’t bother me, for some reason, but his threat—I know he’ll make good on it. If he even waits his turn.

  He spins on his heel and doesn’t give me another glance as he, too, disappears into the belly of the plane.

  When he’s gone, I swallow and look at Gregory, who is watching me with silent interest, and all I can think is I’ll be his too.

  What state will I be in by the time it’s his turn to have me?

  Gregory turns and boards the plane, so it’s just me and Sebastian.

  “My brother is right. You speak when spoken to. Get on the plane.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “You should be more respectful.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  He exhales loudly, like he was expecting that, expecting me to be disobedient.

  When he reaches out for me, I take a step back, but that big hand closes around my arm, and I’m trapped.

  He smiles. “I knew you’d be like this,” he says, turning me, marching me to the stairs and up them and it’s like I’m ascending the scaffold to my execution.

  A few minutes later, we’re seated inside the luxury jet and taking off into the night sky to a destination I do not yet know, to the beginning of a life I’m less and less sure I will survive.

  3

  Sebastian

  I’m watching her from my place at the table where Lucinda has insisted we play a card game to pass the time. The flight to Venice will take all night and part of the morning.

  The girl has finally fallen asleep. For the first two hours, she kept her eyes locked on the window like she could chart the night sky, guess her destination.

  Not that where we’re going is a secret. I just like fucking with her more than I thought I would.

  I didn’t want this at first. I didn’t like the whole idea of it, the tradition of essentially kidnapping a girl. But it is our tradition, and as the eldest, the duty falls on me.

  And now, well, I look forward to having this pretty, willful Willow Girl to do with as I please. Because when all is said and done, I am a man.
/>   And any man who says he doesn’t want a girl on her knees at his feet is a liar.

  “Your turn, Sebastian,” Lucinda says.

  She too gives the girl a sideways glance, but she’s more interested in my reactions to Helena. She’ll take her opportunities with the girl. I wonder which of us Helena will hate more.

  “Hard to focus with a hard-on, huh, brother?” Ethan asks. “Why not wake her up? Initiate her in the bedroom? I would. I mean, she’s used goods anyway. You should have taken one of the others.”

  I don’t react to his taunt. I’ve lived with his jealousy for more than twenty years of my life. From the moment he was born. Instead, I lay down my cards, winning this hand of Pinochle, a favorite game of Lucinda’s.

  “There. How’s that?”

  I stand and swallow the last of my whiskey before handing it to one of the two attendants for a refill.

  When I take the seat beside Helena, she stirs, blinks her eyes open, and looks around her, startled.

  I know the moment she remembers where she is. I see her throat work when she swallows and sits up in her seat.

  The attendant hands me my drink, and I take a sip.

  “I need to use the bathroom,” she says, not quite looking at me.

  I rise to my feet.

  It takes her a minute to unbuckle the seat belt, but she does the same.

  I gesture for her to walk ahead of me to the door at the back, the greedy eyes of my family following us.

  When we reach the door, I lean around her to open it, and she stops for a minute. I guess she’s not expecting a bedroom. Her face goes white as a ghost’s, and there’s only panic in her eyes when she turns to me.

  “Bathroom’s in there.”

  She doesn’t trust me, and she shouldn’t, but she walks into the room. I close the door behind us.

  “There,” I say, pointing to the bathroom door.

  She disappears behind it, and I sit down in the armchair to wait. I cross one leg over the other and check the time. We still have four hours to go, and I’m bored.

  I set my drink down and roll up my shirt sleeves, listen to the toilet flush, hear the water at the sink go on, then off.