When the girls are finished, they are removed from the crucifix, each given their bowl as Felix stays strapped to the wood. The chanting grows louder, vibrating in my ribs as both girls kneel at Felix’s feet.
Rebecca lifts her bowl as an offering before looking at my brother, her voice shaky as she says, “I bleed for you.”
Angela follows, barely audible this time, “I bleed for you.”
Their bowls are removed, poised and waiting to be mixed together. Felix’s eyes flick, scanning the crowd before they land on me and my lungs expand with air. We say everything in one look. He grits his teeth as his gaze flicks quickly back to the girls at his feet. I see as his chest inhales a deep breath before his loud voice echos around the crypt.
“You bleed for me.”
“Now we take the bowl and mix together the blood of the four that are bound,” Father’s voice carries out steady and precise.
He picks up the two bowls filled with Angela and Rebecca’s blood before holding them like an offering to the congregation.
“The blood of the two promised,” he continues as he pours them one by one.
“The blood of the warrior who stands before us,” he picks up Felix’s mixing it in with theirs.
“And finally… the blood of a virgin, whose name will never be known but always remembered. For her sacrifice knows no bounds.”
A gasp ripples out across the room and my gaze finds Roman’s whose nostrils flare. A drop of sweat falls down the back of my spine as I bite my tongue to ward off the memories.
Drip, drip, drip.
I gulp before pressing my fingernails into the palm of my hands a I watch the girls get up on wobbly legs. Felix is released from his bindings and they all make their way to the back of the crypt. This time, it’s not Father who steps up, but Roman’s dad as the air hangs heavy with what is coming next.
“Roman,” he booms, “please declare your promised.”
Roman’s shoulders push back as he keeps his gaze firmly on mine. I don’t breathe; I don’t dare. If this is all some sort of elaborate plan to break me, then I need to prepare myself.
“Fae,” Roman declares, the tension I felt eases from my pores.
“And…” his dad growls. A flicker of annoyance flashes past Roman’s eyes before he steels his shoulders again, still not taking his eyes off me as he announces,
“Quinn.”
His voice doesn’t hide his disgust and I feel smug for a small moment before I look to the front and remember exactly how cold that wood felt against my back the first time. For a second, I don’t move. Then my body does what it was trained to do and I take a step forward, always a step forward.
Every eye follows me. I can feel it, the weight of them, the expectation, the hunger disguised as reverence. Some are clearly surprised, other angry. It’s no secret that Swallows don’t get chosen, especially by someone like Roman. The song hums lowagain, not loud enough to be music, but just enough to vibrate through my bones.
I have done this before but I was twelve, I remind myself. Twelve and terrified and pretending I wasn’t. Now I am older. Now I understand exactly what this is. Now I understand what is at stake.
Lives.
The walk feels longer than it should. My pulse is steady and more controlled. I don’t look at Father, I refuse. I look at Roman instead. He stands at the front now, strapped to the crucifix. His eyes are dark and his jaw is locked. He tracks my every step.
There is an apology in his gaze and something else. Helplessness, I realise with a start. It almost undoes me.
Roman’s dad demands that we kneel.
I kneel. The stone bites into my skin through the fabric of my jeans. I know what’s coming, but it doesn’t make it easier. My throat tightens as hands begin removing my clothes. I keep my gaze on Roman, gaining strength through him and willing myself not to cry at the humiliation and memories.
I will not bow. I will not shrink. Humiliation is their weapon here. The air feels colder against my bare skin. Every nerve ending wakes up from the shame and the memories.
The women wash me with the harsh cloth. I barely hear Quinn simpering next to me, but it still filters through. Cloth. Water. Whispered chanting brushing over my ears. It is supposed to feel sacred. Instead, it feels like you’re being erased. Like you’re being reduced to flesh and utility.
I focus on my breathing. On controlling my heart rate. On getting through this. The memories try to claw their way back into my brain. Of Dr. Fisher’s fingers, of his cock ripping me open, of his prodding and poking, but mainly of the pain. The pain so deep I still have nightmares about it.
The white dress is shoved on me as aggressively as they did when I was a child. Reborn. I almost laugh at the irony as they guide me to my old foe. The wood on my back is solid. Unforgiving.