The Bad Guy

by Celia Aaron

Once lined up at the walkway, I reached behind me to unhook my dress. Then I realized I had no idea how Enid had put the thing on me.

  Vinemont was at my back then, his fingers pulling the fabric together and unhooking the closures that must have held it together along the center seam. He moved his hands up to my shoulders and inhaled deeply before slipping his fingers beneath the lace straps and letting the dress fall to the floor in a feathery heap.

  Cold air rushed over my body, and the nearest revelers stopped what they were doing to watch me.

  Vinemont moved his hands down my sides, feeling my curves before his hands settled at my hips. His breath was warm against my shoulder. His familiar scent was oddly comforting.

  I took one step, and then another. I kept my head high as I walked. I fixed my gaze far across the room on one of the particularly beautiful chandeliers. Crystal drops hung from it, multi-faceted and shimmering despite the mass of human ugliness beneath it. It was untouched by the hideous inhabitants of the room. Maybe I could be, too.

  I slapped away hands and fingers, refusing to let them degrade me any more than they already had. I ignored catcalls and whistles. When I reached the end, I turned and repeated my travel, glaring at Oakman as defiantly as I could. He stared back intently before unzipping his fly and motioning for one of the women below to “assist” him.

  I dropped my attention and caught Vinemont staring at me, fire in his eyes like never before. He didn’t look down my body, just held my gaze as I walked, as if he were pulling me toward him with some strange gravity. I reached him and turned, making the circuit one more time under the watchful eyes and the grasping hands.

  I reached the far end where a wrinkled man with a protruding erection waited for me.

  “Ms. Rousseau, so pleased to see you again.” He grinned, a red mask obscuring his eyes, while his date for the night—a handsome man of no more than twenty—stood close behind him.

  I knew his voice. My stomach flipped and soured. “Judge Montagnet?”

  The judge’s date reached around and began stroking Montagnet’s cock, though the set of the young man’s mouth was less excited and more apathetic.

  “Well, I must get back,” Montagnet said. “I just wanted to congratulate you. Keep up the good work, lovely girl, and I certainly hope the Vinemonts prevail this year. Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on your father for you.” He disentangled himself from the younger man’s grip and knelt down on all fours on a nearby divan. I turned my head away before I saw anything more.

  The judge’s threat was a strangling vine around my heart, choking out any love or warmth, leaving only cold fear. I was foolish, so foolish for running. Never again. I was captured, bound by the invisible vise of these people, their power. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to turn. I scanned the crowd, wishing I could burn the chateau down on their heads.

  One of the servants motioned toward me with the prod. I took a deep breath and finished my walk. I kept my eyes up, trying to distance myself from the horror of the scene. I refused to give in to the helpless feeling of being nude and on display for the faceless horde. They thrashed around me like damned souls in hell, their breaths hot and their hands clawing at me. I fought them off and hurried my pace.

  No one managed more than a brushing swipe against my bare skin. I counted it as a win. Vinemont’s gaze was still rapt, though every so often he would stare daggers at the ones who reached out to touch me.

  When I made it back to him, he offered his hand to me as I stepped down. I didn’t take it.

  “Well, now that we’ve got the easy parts over with, let’s get on to the main attraction!” Oakman, as ever, kept the entertainment fresh.

  I glared up at Vinemont. “Wait, that wasn’t the main attraction?”

  He showed no emotion, just held my gaze. He was somehow steady even as I felt the storm rising around me.

  “Bring them on up,” the voice boomed.

  Vinemont squeezed my arm and pushed me in front of him, toward the stairs and to the tree. Gavin and Brianne were ahead of me. As they made it to the top, I heard metallic clanging sounds above. Brianne shrieked.

  “We haven’t even hurt you yet.” Oakman’s laughter infected the room until it was a cacophony of soulless mirth.

  I took the final step. Brianne was sobbing again. Gavin just looked catatonic, as if none of this was registering any more. They were both chained, their fronts facing the tree. Vinemont guided me to the one empty spot against the trunk. He raised my wrists and clamped the shackles down around each one. He pulled the chain down from above and hooked it to the chain in the center of the restraints. Then he fastened my ankles with the restraints at the base of the tree.

  I shook. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t stay strong in the face of what I knew was coming. Oakman stood and trailed the end of a whip through his hand lovingly. Moving slowly, I bet the leather was smooth and supple. Moving as he swung, it would tear my flesh. My tremor grew until the shackles were shaking, clanging against each other.

  “Oh, I can fix that.” Oakman yanked on a chain hanging from a pulley next to him. It pulled our arms upward until all three of us were pressed against the tree, the metal digging into our wrists and ankles and our backs on display.

  “Everyone, the years just keep getting better don’t they?”

  A smattering of approval rose from below. Even with the spotlight in my face, I could sense they were all still, watching. A tremor roared through me at the realization. What could be so fascinating to stop the roiling beasts from clamoring and rutting?

  I tried to turn, to look at Vinemont. To try and will him to free me, save me, let me go. I couldn’t see him. The blinding light and tight bonds mastered me. I was held fast, blood already running down my forearms from the shackles. The pain in my wrists and ankles was growing by the second, the metal cutting deeper with each of my breaths.

  “Two-hundred and fifty years of pride. And this year is the best of all. Twenty-five Acquisition Balls, twenty-five strokes of the whip for each of our guests.”

  The crowd roared with approval.

  I couldn’t stop the sob that rattled up from my lungs. Brianne began screaming, her voice a high, blood-curdling shriek. It died away, muffled by Red’s handkerchief or some similar gag.

  My thoughts scattered, unable to focus on anything. I clamped my eyes shut and forced myself to focus on why I was here. Dad. He was there on the back of my eyelids. Standing over me as I awoke in the hospital. He smoothed my hair from my face even as I was bandaged and strapped to the bed. Was this so different? I bled, I was bound, I was wavering between the world I’d known and one I could only imagine. But now, instead of breaking him, my suffering would save him. Tears slid down my cheeks and disappeared. I would endure it. All of it.

  “Now, who wants to go first?” Cal broke through my memories.

  “That’d be me.” Vinemont spoke, his voice harsh and strong.

  “That’s my good man. Here you go. Make them count.” Oakman laughed.

  Vinemont stood behind me and ran a lingering hand down my skin, the whip hanging from his other hand. His touch was warm, somehow gentle. I let myself feel it, if only for a second. Let myself imagine he cared for me, that his was a lover’s touch. That he wouldn’t hurt me.

  The warmth disappeared. He backed away.

  I held my breath. I felt like the entire room held its breath. And then I was awash in pain. I didn’t know I’d screamed until the sound died in my lungs from the force of the next hit.

  “He’s really going all out. This may be your next Sovereign ladies and—”

  I couldn’t hear his words, couldn’t hear anything except the sound of my pain. It was my scream, eating up the space inside me, bleeding out my ears. Agony like I had never felt before erupted along my back. Lines of destruction. I could feel my skin separating with each of his vicious strokes. Blood leaked and trailed down my legs. It felt the same as I remembered it from those years ago, the same way as my blood felt drippin
g from my arms. But this time the damage was bigger and offered no promise of release from this life.

  I screamed until my voice left me, the air no longer cooperating with my lungs. I burned everywhere. My blood sprayed against Brianne whose stifled scream replaced my own.

  I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. I was gone.

  14 Stella

  My mom stroked her warm hand down my face. Even in the dark I knew it was her. She whispered comforting words to me, telling me the pain was temporary and would fade. The sharp stings were far away now. Everything beneath me was soft, warm. I was loved. I was content.

  My back was cool, numb. What happened?

  I tried to tell her how much I missed her, how glad I was she was back. She’d been gone so long. Where had she gone?

  “Shh, sleep now.” Mom pulled a blanket up to my waist, making my legs toasty.

  “Go ahead and push more before she feels anything.” She was speaking to someone else now.

  Deep dreamless sleep.

  The sound of birds pulled me up from the pleasant darkness. Light streamed in through the windows of the room. I faintly recognized the walls, the windows, the quilts, all jogging my memories. I was lying on my stomach.

  I blinked the sleep away and lifted my head. An aching pain shot through my back. I dropped my head back down with a groan.

  “Stella.” It was my mother’s voice. No. No, it was Renee’s. Mom was dead.

  “Renee?” I could barely speak, my voice hoarse.

  Is there a tube in my arm?

  “I’m here. Don’t worry. You’re healing up nicely. Do you want to go back under again?”

  “Under?”

  “Asleep. The Vinemont family doctor has been staying for the past three days and keeping you asleep so you could recover. I can have him put you out for longer if it bothers you too much.”

  My mind was having trouble clicking into the ‘on’ position. An IV was suspended above me, some clear liquid dripping through it at a leisurely pace.

  I shifted my head so I could see Renee. Her concerned face brought the flood of horror back. The ball, the tortures, Vinemont flaying the skin from my back.

  A sob rose up and stuck in my dry throat.

  Renee wrung her hands. “I’ll fetch Dr. Yarbrough.”

  “No,” I croaked.

  I fought the tears back, though a few escaped and dropped onto my white pillow. We were silent for a long time. The ball replayed through my mind like a particularly vivid nightmare—the masks, the cruelty, the violence, and the pain. More than anything, I remembered Vinemont, how he’d volunteered to whip me first, how he’d swung harder and harder until I blacked out from the pain.

  Had I actually almost felt something for him? Each lash killed whatever twisted emotion had grown in my heart. I was glad. My feeling of betrayal was replaced with rage, raw anger. I added these to the box in my chest, the one where I had hidden away my sadness. It was full to bursting with every negative emotion I possessed. Still, I stuffed more inside, poisoning myself by saving the bitterness and hate.

  I tried to calm my breathing. Anytime my lungs expanded too fully, my back felt as if it would rip apart. Renee looked almost as white as my pillowcase and kept wringing her hands.

  “Vinemont?”

  “I haven’t seen him. Not since he brought you back. He was, well, he was in a bad way. Lucius and Teddy had to come get him.”

  “Tired out from whipping me, was he?”

  “No, not that. It did something to him. I don’t know.”

  “Did something to him, huh?” I tried to yell, but it only came out in a hoarse burst of sound. The effort made my back scream.

  “I meant. I-I meant—” She rose abruptly and came to take my hand.

  I wanted to rip it away, but I didn’t dare move.

  “I mean, I’ve never seen him like that. He kept begging me to fix it, to heal you. He tried to clean your wounds himself before Dr. Yarbrough arrived. He wouldn’t let anyone else touch you. He sat here with you and told you he was sorry over and over. He wouldn’t leave. Not until Lucius and Teddy came. Only Teddy could get through to him. I haven’t seen Mr. Sinclair since.”

  I couldn’t imagine any of what she was saying. Remorse seemed a completely foreign emotion to Vinemont. The way he’d whipped me was an assault on more than just my body. He’d struck at my soul, instilling dread so deeply that I didn’t know if I’d ever recover.

  When I’d hurt myself, it gave me a release, a chance at oblivion. When he’d done it, he trapped me even more inside myself. Every lash was a fresh set of bars, hemming me in and holding me captive. If he could do that to me, what else would he be willing to do to win the Acquisition? And what was even required to win?

  “I know it’s hard. I know.” Renee’s voice broke through my shadowy thoughts.

  “You know? No, you don’t.” I slid my fingers away from her, out of her warm grip.

  She knelt by my bed, getting at eye level with me.

  “I do, Stella.”

  No you don’t.

  “How? Have you been branded and whipped? Have you had a year of your life stolen? Have you had to endure a man like Vinemont?” My tears were flowing, making slight plops onto the pillow beneath me.

  Renee’s dark eyes were troubled, a storm seeming to rage in her breast. She took a deep breath, as if she had come to a decision. She began unbuttoning her black shirt, her fingers nimble. Then she turned and swept her hair away from her nape. There in the stark green and black was the same ‘V’ that had been seared into me in ink.

  She pulled her top down further so I could see the beginnings of lash marks crisscrossing her fair skin.

  “What—”

  “I was Mrs. Sinclair’s Acquisition twenty years ago.” She faced me again, her frank gaze disarming me.

  If she had hit me, I couldn’t have been more stunned. A million questions tumbled through my mind, one building on the next before stumbling in front of an even bigger curiosity. Why would she stay? What had her year been like? Could she help me?

  She stood and refastened her top. When she moved to step away from me, I reached for her. The pain shot like lightning down my back. It went so deep I wondered if my heart hadn’t somehow been lashed right along with my skin. I screamed and dropped my head.

  “I’ll get the doctor. Don’t move, sweet Stella. Please don’t.” She rushed from the room.

  My mind spun with revelations and harsh sensations. Renee had known all along. She knew what would happen to me at the ball. Why didn’t she warn me? Vinemont’s words came back to me—the more I knew, the more afraid I would be, and the more it all would hurt.

  A dark figure rushed through the door, Renee sweeping in behind. Before I could protest—did I want to protest?—he fiddled with my IV and I was out.

  This time I dreamed. Vinemont was in there in all of them—tormenting me or loving me. Were they one and the same? Then my father was sitting in his favorite chair telling me a story, though I couldn’t hear the words. Finally, my mother arrived, her hair up in the messy bun I remembered. She was sad. Always sad. Water flowed from her mouth and then it changed to blood, more blood than a person could lose and still live. She was drowning in the very thing that gave her life. I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t even save myself. I sat in a pool of my own blood, the droplets slowing right along with my heartbeat. Steps in the hallway—my father. I dreaded him finding me before it was over. I didn’t want him to see me die. The footsteps grew louder and then stopped.

  “Stella?”

  I knew that voice. It wasn’t my father’s. It was the voice of a demon, one that made me burn with desire and hate until both emotions mixed in a funeral pyre of black smoke.

  I opened my eyes. He was here. Vinemont.

  “Going to hit me again?” It came out as a whisper, but he winced as if I’d yelled at him.

  “I don’t know.”

  I was still lying on my stomach. My eyes finally adjusted to the
dark. He sat near the door, his face unshaven, his clothes wrinkled and disheveled. He looked like I felt.

  “What sort of an answer is that?”

  “An honest one.” He leaned over, resting his elbows on his thighs.

  “You sick fuck.” I refused to cry. I would not cry.

  “Yes.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. The sound of his palm rubbing against his stubble was loud in my ears.

  “What now? Are you going to hurt me some more? Maybe cut some fingers off and send them to my dad? Fuck you. Whatever it is, just get it over with.” Tiredness had settled into every muscle and bone of my body. It must have been the drugs. My back no longer felt so raw; only a low ache emanated from it. My skin felt as if it had stitched back together, but I could already sense the scars forming, solidifying, forever marking me.

  “No, I would never…”

  I laughed but it was a rough, ugly sound. “You would never? Never what? Never enslave me? Never strip me naked and make me bleed for an audience?” My eyes welled with unshed tears. The hurt inside me seemed too much for my body to bear.

  He dropped his head, his defeat just as out of character as his unshaven face and mussed hair. “I can’t change what I did, Stella. I would do it again.”

  I wanted to scream, to rage at him, to demand to know why he sat here appearing contrite, while at the same time telling me he would do it all over again if given the chance. Was this the mental torture to go along with the physical?

  “Do me a favor. When you become Sovereign, how about you make your first decree for you to go royally fuck yourself?”

  He sighed and shook his head. “I don’t expect you to understand. I didn’t want—”

  “Get out.” I turned my head away from him, my neck stiff and unused to the movement.

  He stayed. I could sense him there, unmoving, his gaze still on me.

  There was nothing more to say. He’d whipped me like an animal. Worse, really. The memory of Cal Oakman’s voice rattled around in my mind. The way he crowed over Vinemont’s fevered strokes that drew my blood so easily. My tears went from sadness to rage.