Page 115 of Vows of Silence

A small pinch to the side of my neck got my attention. I groaned in protest, wanting to bat the annoying prick away, but my hands remained useless on the bed. Then a burning pain followed the sharp scratch. It felt familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

A hand held my hair to the side, and I heard the satisfied grunt. I wanted to ask questions but my lips felt too heavy to move, my tongue too thick. I wanted to shove them away and scream.

Instead, warmth spread beneath my skin, slow and terrible, pulling me down before I could decide whether I had ever truly woken at all.

The next time I surfaced, my phone was vibrating.

The sound was close. Irritatingly close. It was somewhere near the bed, maybe on the bedside table, maybe in the hand of whoever had just picked it up. I couldn’t turn my head enough to see. I could only stare through the thin slit of my half-open eyes at the dark figure standing beside the bed, furiously typing a response to my messages.

For one confused second, I thought it was Silas. Every shadow in this house belonged to him in some way. Every silence carried his shape. But why would Silas be replying to my messages? Who had tried to contact me?

No one.

No one knew where I was.

Did they?

The phone buzzed again, and I tried to lift my hand. I tried to ask for the phone. But nothing happened. The darkness threatened to wash over me again, and it took all of my strength to keep my eyes half-way open.

The figure looked down at the screen, waited a moment, then pressed something with their thumb. The buzzing stopped.

A hysterical little thought drifted through my mind.

Maybe it had been Adrien. Maybe it had been my father. Maybe help had finally tried to reach me, and I had been lying there too drugged to answer while one of Silas’s people decided whether or not I was allowed saving.

The figure set the phone down again, screen facing the wood, and moved away.

I wanted to cry, but even that felt too difficult.

When I woke again, someone was touching my legs.

Their movements weren’t rough, but they were firm enough for me to notice. Whoever it was moved with methodical care, lifting one leg at a time, smoothing warm water over my skin, dragging something from my ankle to my knee with a gentleness that made the whole thing feel somehow worse.

What was that?

I heard the splash of water, and then whatever it was came back to my leg, running along the length of it again.

Was that a razor?

I looked at the ceiling in confusion, the room spinning. I vaguely registered that this was not the ceiling from the room I had collapsed in.

Where was I?

Had they carried me somewhere else? Had I walked there myself? I couldn't remember.

The person lifted my other leg and began again. I focused on the rhythm—scratch down my leg, splash in the water, scratch again.

It was definitely a razor.

And then my legs were opened, and a cool gel was applied to my genitals.

I wanted to pull my legs shut. I wanted to turn away from the touch. But then the razor was placed against me, and they gently shaved me whilst I was powerless to stop it.

What was happening? Was this even real? And was that leather I felt holding my legs apart?

The thought floated through me, distant and dreamlike, before disappearing beneath the weight dragging me back under.

At some point, someone brushed my hair—and that was the moment that almost broke me.