Silent echoes devils due.., p.23
Silent Echoes (Devil’s Duet Book 2), page 23
I got nothing more than a fuzzy nap, and even then, I was twitching and turning in my sleep, waking up around five times during the night because I thought I saw or heard someone.
I guess, by someone, I mean Mateo. It’s been a few hours since he left, but my cheeks still burn deep red, the imprints of his hands resting across my skin like a veil of wickedness.
The throbbing ache between my legs is not letting me forget what happened even for a second. The spot burns like nothing I’ve felt before, the pain intensifies the more I think about this.
Can it be possible? For the pain to intensify just when my brain concentrates on it? Like psychosomatics, or whatever it’s called.
When I inhale, the shakiness of my breath revibrates across my body as I shudder like a leaf under the fall wind. I just want to stop shaking, but my body refuses to calm down even for a moment. I feel as if he’s still inside me, still taking me against my will.
I want to go shower, though I doubt the water will help me to wash off this disgusting feeling. It already seeped under my skin and took root inside my bones and muscles, with every second thriving and suffocating me.
My body doesn’t belong to me anymore. It feels so dirty as if I was rolling in the mud, the only difference between it and the real situation is that the mud can be easily washed off.
And used. I feel like I was fucked by every member of this fucking cult.
Even if Caleb finds me, he will never look at me the same. I know that. He may try to placate me that everything is fine and nothing changed between us, but it’s obvious he is going to lie because it won’t be right to tell me otherwise.
Because he won’t want to make me feel even more miserable than I already will be.
And after he feels that he’s done everything he needs to, making sure I am safe back at home, he will turn around and wave me goodbye. Because nobody wants a damaged woman. A woman who is traumatized and weak. Who is forced to carry her trauma till the day she dies.
It’s a tough fucking baggage to carry. The zest in our relationship with Caleb was in the fact that it was always simple between us. He started haunting me, already knowing I would let him in my life simply because he’d done everything the man from my dreams would do.
And I gladly swallowed everything he gave me, embracing his love because it was the sole thing that made me feel valuable and desired. I fell for him instantly like a naïve little girl, because in fact, I think some parts of me never grew up.
I always craved for love. From my mother, then from other people. And I never received even a hint of it. Which is why Caleb had me with a click of his fingers without even trying much.
It sounds pathetic, but it’s who I am. Or rather, who I was.
Because now there’s I feel like there’s nothing left from my naivety and inner child that I hated so much. If let me go home now, I won’t allow him to come near me on a cannon shot.
But what matters isn’t what would happen if. The only thing that matters is the fact that he won’t ever feel toward me the same. I already imagine the look in his eyes, the flicker of pity blended with disgust as I will tell him out loud that I was raped.
The footsteps ruminate through the rotten floor, the sound slowly coming closer to the front door of my room. I blink up, shaking off the rest of the tears that are gathered in the corners of my eyes.
It’s time to read the mantra and face a Special Day.
After I finished the chores, I read the mantra again and then had some lunch. It tasted like ass—the meat dish served with lumpy, watery porridge left me questioning whether I should even eat it. However, faced with limited options and not wanting to risk starving, I reluctantly consumed a few mouthfuls, with my eyes shut and nostrils firmly closed.
The bells rang two times in a row, and Camille explained to me that it meant we had to gather on the main street and wait for the Elite, but before that, we were supposed to change our clothes.
A glimmer of hope flickered in my mind as the prospect of warmth awaited us for the day spent outdoors. Little did I anticipate the transformation awaiting us in the form of Victorian-style dresses—a stark departure from the drab, threadbare garments we typically endured, offering zero warmth whatsoever.
“Suck in a breath,” Martha orders, her tone harsh.
There are no doubts this bitch wants to kill me by tightening the corset on my waist so hard that I can barely breathe in it. Under the fabric, it feels like all of my organs are squeezed together, and if I spent a minute longer, they may pierce my skin and fall the fuck out.
“Out of all the women I helped, you are the hardest to work with,” she spits, her hands roughly tying the ropes, each movement jerking me upward. “This is inappropriate. We need to tell Mr. Moore to reduce your daily portions of food.”
Tears prick the corners of my eyes, and I have to bite my tongue to keep it together. The pain spreads in waves across my body with each movement she makes. Everything hurts—my head, chest, waist, legs.
Especially my legs.
Vividly, I feel Mateo’s presence between them. Hours passed by, and by now all the agony should’ve vanished, but in my case, it feels like it intensified. And with each of Martha’s jolts of my body, it feels like she shoves deeper the piercing needles inside my core. Maybe I am even bleeding at this point.
“Ready.”
No matter how disgusting her voice sounds to my ears, this sole word she pronounces, makes me feel nothing but a pleasant relief.
I unglue my palms from the wall and straighten up, feeling the tightness of the fabric seeping into my skin, almost rendering me immobile. When I inhale, I feel how every inch of my body tenses, my lungs desperately fighting their way to get some oxygen inside me.
“Nobody is going to wait on you,” Martha snaps, demonstratively eyeing me from head to toe. “If they won’t see you outside in three minutes, they’ll drag you out by your hair.”
I nod, fighting back a groan of sharp pain. The bitch turns on her heels and storms out of the changing room, slamming the door shut behind her.
Three minutes. That’s all I can have for myself.
My eyes land on the small mirror stuffed in the corner of this room. Rags and pieces of once pretty garments adorn this place, all scattered around chaotically.
Gathering my courage, I take a few reluctant steps toward the mirror, seeing a glimpse of my silhouette in misted glass. Fighting back my disgust, I stop in front of the mirror, never bothering to remove the piece of fabric covering its top.
I don’t have any desire to take a full look at myself.
Avoiding my face, my attention concentrates on the dress. One I can’t argue with—Martha is an excellent needlewoman. The clothes she can make would attract people, and if we were in the normal world, she would make tons of money from this.
Made in a black color, the dress adorns me with a high neckline, long sleeves, and a voluminous floor-length skirt. A tightly laced corset cinches my waist, its constriction making each breath a struggle. The layers of flowing fabric look royal, and the soft, silky feel is a luxurious change from our usual rags.
Slowly, I trail my eyes upper, meeting my own stare.
No matter how beautiful the dress they put on me will be, it can’t fix the reflection I see. It is like looking at a ghostly image, with my pale face and dark circles under my eyes showing the hidden pain within me. All of my struggles show in my thin, tired appearance, reflecting the turmoil inside me.
I feel incredibly fragile, like a walking skeleton about to fall apart. Just a touch can break me, and a gentle breeze can whisk me away.
My body shrinks more and more, becoming a mere shadow of what it once was, while despair tightens its grip on my mind.
I trail behind Adam’s sturdy figure, finding a semblance of solace in his broad back, his shadow offering me cover from the Elite members striding ahead. Three men exude an air of elegance akin to panthers, their chins held high and black capes billowing in the gentle cold breeze.
I have no idea where we’re going. I want to ask Camille or Adam, but the crowd is too close, and I don’t want anyone to overhear my curiosity.
“Don’t worry,” Camille reassures me, her fingers slightly touching my skin. Her dress appears to have the most colors in it—as if reflecting a rainbow, adding to her childish excitement. “The first time usually feels strange, but you’ll get used to it.”
My throat tightens with a hard swallow as I digest her words. Right now, my curiosity is shadowed by the sense of instinct fear, anxiety swirling in the pit of my stomach, making me feel sick.
I’ve seen enough horrors that will keep me awake for a long time. I don’t need another shit to have nightmares about.
“What do you mean?” I whisper-ask her, a small smile forms on my face as I try to hide beneath the mask of it.
Her golden eyes bream with unusual sparkle—a psychotic, wicked gleam reflects in her stare as she smiles as wide as she can, baring her ivory-colored teeth. “I mean you’re finally going to see what our people do for fun.”
Amassive arena, as large as a football stadium, greets everyone. Its vast space extends deep into the woods, shrouded in a dense white mist, its coldness palpable from a distance.
The small tingles of fear tickle my insides, sending a wave of gooseflesh down my spine, raising tiny hairs in fear. I try to keep my face blank, a pale canvas devoid of any concern whatsoever. With every day I grow more accustomed to keeping emotions inside my belly-basement. People in here already hate me without a valid reason, and it would be stupid to give them one for a soil of sprouting hate.
But still, it’s hard. I maybe got used to having no idea whatever the fuck is happening around me, but that doesn’t mean I feel less uncomfortable.
Something inside tells me that whatever is going to happen today will be worse than everything I’ve seen here before. Especially after Camille’s words that still echo in my head like an ominous melody on a stuck record.
You’re finally going to see what our people do for fun.
Just when I’m about to think deeper, guessing options, from the corner of my eye, I notice that someone is staring at me. I try to ignore it, but the stare is so intense it feels like whoever my watcher is, he strips me off and dives into the deepest parts of my soul, trying to solve the mystery I haven’t solved myself.
Abruptly, I turn my head to the side, only to meet Eliana. Her pale face merges with her abnormally white dress, the strands of black hair crawling onto her features, making her look like a walking death, only her bright green eyes paint a slight contrast to her appearance.
Confusion furrows my brow as she keeps her gaze fixed on me, emotions flickering dimly in her eyes that I struggle to understand.
What does she want from me? A sprout of something akin to annoyance is always planted in her stare, but it doesn’t feel intentional.
“Dear members of the community!” Grayson shouts, immediately stealing everyone’s attention, including mine.
I snap my head toward him, breaking the staring contest with Eliana, albeit she never does the same. Her eyes are still fixated on me, I can feel it. It sends a wave of irritation through me as I clench my jaw, my body tensing and my hands forming into fists. What makes her think it’s okay to stare at me so shamelessly?
“A Special Day has come and all of us shall witness this year’s participants,” Moore continues, spreading his arms to the sides.
The wind picks up the loose cloth of his cape as he continues his speech as if purposely giving him a more magisterial look.
Someone from the crowd gasps loudly, and the corner of Grayson’s lips lifts up in a self-satisfied smirk.
He knows what he’s doing. With confidence lacing his tone, the rigid sureness of his smooth movements and even a simple natural coincidence such as a gust will make him look like God.
Or Father, as the cult prefers to call their legend.
Suddenly, whispers fill the air, people’s heads snapping to the left side as the look of pure disgust flashes across each of their faces, their brows knitting as they stare at someone.
The echoing clinks of chains sliding across the wooden floor drown out the hushed whispers, igniting my curiosity to unprecedented heights. A quick turn of my head to the left jolts me with shock, nearly sending me tumbling off the bench. Dread and disbelief intertwine in my mind as I behold two towering figures cloaked in capes and masks, dragging a fragile girl by her shackled arms. It’s her mouth that elicits the strongest reaction from me.
It’s sewed shut—the thick, black threads bind her lips. Her head is bowed, she is dragged along, her toes barely grazing the ground as they hoist her up.
“That’s Kaia,” Camille says calmly.
I find myself unable to tear my gaze away from Kaia, observing as the two men persist in dragging her limp form, eventually settling her onto the bench. She remains still, head bowed, limbs motionless, prompting me to question her consciousness.
“Her mouth was sewn shut because she was screaming and whining too much when they brought her here,” Camille continues, unfazed by my shocked expression. “They isolate her like a rat in a cage to prevent her from frightening any of us.”
“A rat in the cage?” I echo, confusion flooding over me at her analogy.
She nods, her fingers gently tracing her braid. “Yeah! I had a small white rat in a little cage before I moved here. I adored her, especially her bright red eyes. They looked like expensive rubies people wear in jewelry. Have you ever seen a rat before?”
My lips part in surprise, the mix of confusion and fear evident on my face—a stark contrast to Camille’s cheerful, nostalgic expression. “I—”
“Don’t look so obvious!” she interjects, nudging me sharply in the side. “None of us can help Kaia. And you’re being rude, staring at her so insolently!”
I jerk my head away from Kaia’s direction, a pang of shame washing over me. Suddenly, I imagine myself in her position, considering how my gaze must appear. It’s offensive and impolite to openly stare at her; it would make me no different from the other sick fuckers in this place.
Yet, despite my efforts to divert my attention, my mind continues to think about the girl. What unsettles me the most is that despite her victimization, she remains one of them. Kidnapped and coerced into their games, she’s been claimed as their own. The reality of what they’ve done to her mouth is beyond belief—I wouldn’t trust anyone who recounted this story if I hadn’t witnessed it with my eyes.
The people here possess souls as dark as the deepest night; committing such a thing against a member of their own community is what fills me with the most profound disgust.
The Elite constantly feed us lies, pretending to be arbiters of truth and values, but they’re actually nothing but malicious beings disguised as benevolent leaders. They cloak themselves in the guise of righteousness, yet lack any true integrity.
“Today, we shall undergo purification through the tradition upheld for decades,” Grayson declares, his voice crescendoing as he nears his final words. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he pauses, a sinister smirk spreading across his face, “Welcome this year’s outcasts.”
The metal gates swing open on the left side of the arena, unleashing a procession of men clad in capes. They appear almost identical—their heads clean-shaven, gleaming under the light as if anointed. Their synchronized stride as they exit the gates and form a precise line is executed with military precision. Each of them carries a bow and quiver slung over their backs, each quiver holding a single arrow.
I tense, my fists involuntarily clenching the fabric of my dress, twisting it between my fingers. Trying to steady my nerves, I draw in a breath, but the tightness of my corset—thanks to Martha—prevents me from taking a full, deep breath.
I struggle to even swallow the lump of fear that’s formed in my throat, feeling the sting of tears welling up in the corners of my eyes from the strain of sitting in this position. It’s as if one wrong move will cause my dress to tear apart, though I doubt it would be such a terrible outcome.
At least then I could fucking breathe properly.
All eyes are fixed on the arena, the anticipation palpable in the air. It’s as if everyone is under a spell, transfixed and unable to look away, not even blinking.
A gentle touch on my back makes me nearly jump out of my skin, my lips pressing into a thin line as goosebumps prickle across my skin from the unexpected contact.
Slowly turning my head to the left, I meet Adam’s side profile as his eyes remain fixed on the same spot as everyone else, though they lack the lifeless gaze of the others. He feels my stare, and his gaze shifts to my side, his expression taking on a strange hue.
His fingers venture downward from my back, and as I feel the cold touch of steel against the ropes of my corset, I blink up at him in surprise, disbelief evident on my face.
“Keep your focus on the spectacle,” he whispers, shooting me a warning glance.
To any casual observer—if indeed anyone notices at all—it appears as though Adam has merely placed a reassuring hand on my back. His knife is small, concealed within his grip, positioned so that those behind us would see nothing but the back of his hand.
With deliberate care, he begins to sever the ropes, easing their tight hold on my body. As a tear slips down my cheek and I feel some of the constriction loosen, a wave of relief washes over me, tempting a small smile to grace my lips. Yet, I suppress it swiftly, wary of arousing suspicion.
Adam’s knife continues its methodical descent, slicing through two more ropes, gradually loosening their grip.
When the sensation of newfound freedom floods through me, I nearly gasp in relief. My body practically sings with gratitude as, for the first time since arriving here, I welcome the cold air with open arms. Bowing slightly, I inhale deeply through my nose, allowing more tears to flow freely down my cheeks.
