Possess: Protect Book 3

by Ryann, Olivia

  For a heart-stopping moment, I don’t know if she is alive or not. Ari rushes into the cell, kneeling and turning her over.

  I stand there at the door dumbly, realizing that I did this to her.

  It’s just like Arsen all over again, but this time I just let her starve or die of thirst, all alone in this room.

  Rue’s eyes don’t open.

  God, what have I done?

  “She’s still warm.” Ari feels for a pulse.

  I swallow, feeling unsteady. Bile rises in the back of my throat as I wait for Ari to declare the results. Already, I am thinking of exactly where I will throw myself from the castle’s cliffs, as a paltry repayment for my sins.

  As if that would ever really be enough.

  “She’s alive,” Ari announces, exhaling deeply.

  The whole world swims for a minute. Up is down, black is white.

  Rue is alive. Leaning my head against the door for a second, I close my eyes.

  I have to do everything I can to fix this shitstorm that I caused.

  Glancing up at me, he pins me with a glare. “No thanks to you. I’m going to carry her upstairs—”

  He throws back her blanket, then stares down at Rue, horrified. “Mon Dieu. Her ankle is so swollen and infected.”

  He looks back up at me. “Go call a doctor. And get her some water, right away. I’ll carry her upstairs to the living room.”

  I want to demand that I carry her, but looking at her frail body, exposed and half-naked, I’m too ashamed. So instead I nod my head, standing back and letting Ari gather her up in his arms.

  I follow him up the stairs, my emotions and guts roiling deep within me.

  7

  Rue

  I’m in and out for a while, I think.

  Sometimes I open my eyes and I’m in the cell, a strange man peering down at me, looking concerned. He pats a cloth over my forehead and murmurs that I’ll be okay.

  Sometimes I’m in the living room of the castle, being attended to by multiple men. In the back of the room, there is Dryas, leaning against the wall and scowling, looking like he’s a simmering pot of rage about to tip over.

  Other times, though… I open my eyes and…

  Rough, grey brick walls. Hard pine floors made shiny by hours of buffing from girls in my position. There is very little light, here outside the church itself. I’m at the convent, on my knees, in trouble as always.

  I’m in Sister Marguerite’s office. Ama is here too, staring at the same legs of the big polished pine desk as me. I see her blonde halo of hair, though she is praying with her head down so I can’t see her face.

  Ama and I kneel before Sister Marguerite’s desk, our eyes closed tightly. Behind us, Father Derrik prowls.

  A shadow moves behind me. I turn my head a little and see Father Derrik is here, pacing the floor behind us. His blond hair is neat, his black vestment are spotless. His expression is intense, practically scowling.

  I can’t remember why he’s called us in here, but from his expression, it must be something serious. But what serious infraction could Amabel and I even commit? We’ve been separated during our chores, her to the kitchens and me to scrubbing and polishing the rectory floors for hours and hours.

  Father Derrik is making this sound he only makes when he’s beyond enraged, a low muttering sound that seems to come out of his chest without him realizing it. I cringe to hear it. The worst punishments are always handed down when Father Derrik is very angry.

  Times like this are the worst.

  Father Derrik turns his head toward me. My breath freezes as I turn my head back down, shivering. His heavy footsteps sound behind me, and I squeeze my eyes shut and pray.

  Our Father, who art in Heaven,

  Hallowed be thy name…

  My lips move as I mumble the prayer, hoping desperately that he won’t put his hand on my shoulder. Because if he does, I know what that means.

  I will have to give my confession right here, in this room, with my sister watching. My backbone is made of steel, but I can’t endure that.

  Please God, don’t let me have to try.

  I can feel his eyes on my back, watching as I say my prayers silently. My knees creak when I shift my weight from one knee to the other. They hurt from kneeling for so long, but I’m not about to draw attention to myself by complaining.

  Of course, if it’s between bringing attention to myself or letting Amabel get some of the Father’s attention, I will choose to be punished every single time without fail.

  The floorboards creak even more when the Father paces over them. “Our Father, who art in Heaven…”

  He walks slowly back and forth, muttering the same words as we say them. The leather in his shoes makes a distinctive sound every time he turns on his heel. I’m starting to hate that sound. In my head, I pull it apart. The complaint of leather, the grate of his thick plastic soles on the pine floor.

  I’ve heard it so many times that I am disgusted by it.

  Shaking myself, I am determined not to get distracted by those sounds. That’s an easy way to be punished further, beyond what I’ve come to think of as normal.

  I just need to focus on saying the words, which have long since lost all meaning. As I say the prayer, I am also praying that Father Derrik doesn’t get the idea to show Ama just what we do during our private sessions.

  Lord, keep those meetings between the Father and me. Please don’t let him reveal my dirty little secret. I’ve tried so hard to keep it from her, to keep what Father Derrik does to me under wraps.

  “Twenty Hail Marys,” Father Derrik says, his voice deceptively light. I bet if I turned around right now, I would see him rubbing his hands together and pacing, his eyes practically glowing. See, for years now I’ve had a lisp that causes me to stumble on the word blessed.

  But Father Derrik hasn’t been here for a couple weeks, during which time I have done my best to master the word. I won’t trip over it, at least… I hope not.

  I say the prayer aloud for the millionth time, but it could be the first or the ten millionth time I’ve said it.

  Hail Mary, full of grace

  The Lord is with thee.

  Blessed art thou amongst women.

  Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

  Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners.

  Now and at the hour of our death.

  Amen.

  Perfect. I want to be gleeful, having just nailed the whole thing. But of course, we must repeat it nineteen times. I lower my head and repeat it slowly and carefully, each word a ticking time bomb.

  Please don’t let me stutter. Please. Please.

  I hear the catch in Amabel’s breath before she splutters a cough, raising her hand to her face to try to contain it. Cringing, I already know that Father Derrik has been waiting for just such an interruption. Ama doesn’t know what Father Derrik is like, but I’m so afraid that she’s about to learn.

  The squeak of his leather shoes stops. My breath leaves me in a gush.

  I’m so very frightened, my clasped hands trembling so hard that the rosary clutched in them rattles softly. His heavy footfalls coming toward us makes me want to draw my sister into my arms and protect her from what’s about to happen.

  Father Derrik’s hand lands on my shoulder, his fingers digging into my flesh painfully. My eyes fly open to see that Ama is undisturbed, still kneeling with her eyes closed. She looks angelic with her blonde hair and frilly white dress.

  “Blessed art thou amongst women,” she says, her head tilted down. “Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”

  I glance up at Father Derrik. He smiles coldly at me, an expression that just makes everything inside me wither. Tears mist over my eyes as I gaze up at him, tall and daunting in all black.

  He slips his fingers up around the nape of my neck, toying with the clasp of my dress. I can’t breathe, my gaze flying to my sister.

  What if she sees?

  If she opens her eyes, she wil
l surely judge me. It’s not Father Derrik’s fault that I seduce him time and time again, after all. He has told me so, many times.

  Why can’t I be better?

  My gaze never leaves Ama’s face as Father Derrik unhooks the clasp of my dress. As a tear starts to fall down my face, I close my eyes and silently pray.

  Please. Please, I know I have sinned, but you don’t have to do this.

  Don’t bring Ama into it.

  Please.

  And then suddenly I’m blinking into a bright beam of sunlight, streaking across my face. It occurs to me that I am thirsty. Very, very thirsty.

  Also, everything hurts, and it is so hot that I am tempted to strip off the long white nightdress I’m in. That seems like more effort than it’s worth, though.

  Pushing myself up on my uninjured forearm, I find a full glass of water beside the cot. I drink it down greedily, the cool water parching my thirst a little. Shoving back my sweaty hair with shaking fingers, I collapse back into bed again.

  God, what a dream.

  Can it be called a dream if it really happened? At some point, it is a memory.

  Though the sunbeam is right in my face, I don’t attempt to move. It’s sort of nice, the feeling of the sun. It’s a distraction at least from the fact that I’m sure that my blood is boiling, burning me alive from the inside out. My leg throbs with pain, forcing me to close my eyes.

  I think I hear someone approaching. Someone tries to call to me. “Rue?”

  They shake me gently. I’m unable to respond, even if I wanted to.

  “I’ll get you some more water, okay?”

  In a second, I’m lost again, slipping under the darkened waters of my nightmares.

  8

  Rue

  I open my eyes to brightness. The world is blurry, but at least I don’t hurt. Or I hurt, but not as much.

  The sun is sloping across my body in a diagonal diamond, falling on my skin. I stretch, savoring the absence of pain.

  That’s the main thing. I’m wrapped in warmth, my surroundings soft.

  Where am I exactly?

  It takes me a second to focus on the pillow beside me. I realize with a start that I’m lying in my own bed. My eyes fix on the slender silver chain on the pillow beside me. I push myself up, reaching over to grasp the chain.

  On the end of it hangs a delicate blue and red bird.

  Little Bird. I remember the feeling of closeness and intimacy that I felt as Dryas slipped the necklace around my neck, clasping it at the nape of my neck.

  I also remember that Rafi ripped the necklace from my throat. I thought that Rafi stole it from around my neck and flung it far away, but here it is.

  It’s as if none of it ever happened — the fight, struggling with Rafi on the cliff, falling in the water. Being assaulted by a stranger and then thrown into the dungeon by Dryas.

  My eyes tear up immediately. I close my fist around the necklace, feeling its coldness against my warm skin. If only the last week could disappear as readily as this necklace had reappeared.

  With trembling hands, I unclasp the necklace and slide it around my neck. The little bird drops between my breasts with ease, as if it never left. Pulling at the sash of my ivory silk robe, I try to orient myself.

  I sit on the edge of the bed, trying to sift through what has happened. The last week is a haze. I remember being dragged down to the dungeon. I remember Dryas’s wicked smile and his look of furious displeasure.

  Then… I remember Father Derrik, though how he fits into things I don’t know.

  My wrist is still splinted, but it no longer aches constantly. When I pull my leg up, examining it, I find nothing but a nasty scab. It’s still sensitive, but it’s no longer inflamed.

  How and when that happened, I have no idea.

  Standing up, I wobble out of my bedroom and to the bathroom. I turn on the taps of the bath, enjoying the steam that fills the bathroom. While I wait for my bath to fill, I go to the sink, looking in the mirror. Wiping away a bit of fog, I look at myself.

  A haunted, hungry young woman stares back. My red hair is snarled and greasy. There are huge bags under each of my eyes. My face seems taut, stretched thin from starvation.

  As I think that, my stomach growls. How long has it been since I ate? I can’t even count the days.

  Turning away from the mirror, I slip into the bath. The scab on my leg stings for half a minute, but I just ignore it. The water is so nice and hot, soothing away a million little aches that I didn’t even know I had.

  The lavender scented soap is a revelation, sliding down my limbs like magic. And the rose shampoo is some kind of voodoo, working its dark arts on my tangled mass of hair.

  When I’m washing the conditioner from my hair, Dryas appears in the doorway. His eyebrows shoot up.

  For a moment, he’s still the same dark prince that enchanted and frightened me in equal measure my first time in this room. Then he starts forward, his footing uncertain.

  “You are awake,” he slurs. “I was wondering when you’d wake up.”

  From this distance, even with the scent of roses rising from the bath, I can smell the alcohol on him. There really isn’t anywhere for me to recoil in the bathtub, but still, I cringe back, submerging myself further in the hot water.

  Whatever Dryas is battling, it’s obvious to me that it’s bigger than me. That doesn’t stop him from terrorizing me, though.

  “Come here,” he says, kneeling next to the bathtub. “Just let me see that you’re okay.”

  “Dryas, I don’t need your help…” I say. But he plunges his hands in the bathwater, grabbing my kneecaps. His grip is bruising, making me cry out.

  “Nobody asked you,” he whispers, leaning close to my face. “Nobody will hear you scream, either.”

  I try to move, but he locks me in place.

  For a moment, he’s so close to me that I just look into the yellow-green of his eyes, scanning for some sort of reason, some kind of understanding. I feel his breath on my cheek and my chest, laced heavy with drink.

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask softly.

  His mouth curls up. He grips my knees harder, the impressions of his hands burning into my skin. “What else would I be doing?”

  He releases one of my knees, bringing his hand to my breast. Shaping it, he weighs it in his hand for a moment. Then he tweaks my nipple hard, so hard that I try to shove him away. With only one fully functioning hand, it’s useless.

  He laughs, releasing my nipple. “One of the things about you that I like the most is how responsive you are.”

  My hand goes to my breast, shielding my flesh from his touch. “You’re drunk, Dryas.”

  “And yet, I am still your master.” He plunges his free hand into the water again, his fingers slipping down between my thighs. I try to block him again, but I’m shamefully ineffective.

  “Stop!” I insist, writhing. “Dryas, this isn’t as thrilling for me as it obviously is for you.”

  He gets his fingers down to my pussy, groping for my clit. “You don’t know what you like. That’s another thing I like about you… you’re so very trainable. Once I get you where I want you…”

  His fingers surround my clit, pinching it hard. I open my mouth and a small sound comes out as I try to close my legs to him.

  “I don’t want it!” I shout. He just laughs in my face. I burn with shame because Father Derrik never made me crack under pressure like this.

  “You like this,” he says. He stops pinching my clit, his fingers spreading downward to my pussy entrance. He fills me with two thick fingers, looking pleased with himself.

  I can’t stand the smug look on his face.

  “I don’t want you to touch me,” I whisper, my tears rolling down my face. Turning my head away, I face the wall and close my eyes.

  This is my fault, a voice in the back of my head whispers. I started all of this. I set this in motion by picking a fight with him and then running away.

  Or even earlie
r than that, I ran away from my wedding.

  If I hadn’t done any of that, this whole thing wouldn’t be happening, would it?

  “Open your eyes,” he growls, working his fingers in and out of my pussy. When I don’t, he roars. “Fucking look at me!”

  I cringe downward, knowing that I can’t hide from him, but I don’t have to give him what he wants. A snarl rips from his chest, reverberating so loudly that I can feel it.

  His grip on my knee vanishes. I open my eyes just in time for Dryas to wrap his hand around the side of my throat, squeezing it tight. I’m lucky that he only managed to get one side of the column of my throat in his grip, but I still can’t help but fight him off. I kick, I scratch, I even try to bite him.

  He’s trying to kill me.

  I’m desperate to stay alive.

  We struggle for almost a full minute until I start seeing dark spots in my vision. My efforts splash a lot of water around, thoroughly soaking him. He doesn’t even seem to notice though, he’s so drunk.

  I claw at my hand, making the most pathetic mewling sound I’ve ever heard. It just drives him on, makes him squeeze harder. The black spots cover my vision. I stop scratching at him, sagging into the bathtub.

  If he wants me broken, I’ll be broken. I start to see the end, which is me drowning in this bathtub and Dryas snarling at me for being so pathetic and dirty.

  Suddenly he breaks off with a disgusted sound, although whether it’s directed at himself or at me, I can’t tell. Either way, he lets go. I clutch at my throat, dragging in lungfuls of air, desperate to get more oxygen to my starved brain.

  My vision returns in time to see Dryas rising to his feet, shaking the water from his soaked hands. I’ll never forget that image of him as long as I live. Standing over me, breathing hard, his shirt plastered to his body.

  And his face, so full of hatred.

  What did I do to deserve that?

  He whirls and stalks out of the bathroom, leaving me scrambling to get out of the bath and find a towel.