He is just running late.
Super late.
Fucker.
Grabbing the body wash and the brand-new grotesquely pink loofa that is strung up, I vigorously wash at the dust and dirtthat has accumulated in that cell. The clear water runs muddy as I strip away every vulnerability until there is nothing left but a clean canvas.
One I will paint with their blood.
“Time is up, girl,” crooked-nose Narana commands. “Out now.”
Reluctantly, I turn off the flow of heavenly water with a heavy sigh and step from the shower. Narana waits expectantly with a towel in her hand. When I grab for it, she shakes her head and instructs me to lift my arms.
Great, Porky the pig nose is going to dry me.
She towels me roughly, getting every uncomfortable crevice, before wrapping me in a black silk robe and instructing me to sit on one of the vanity stools.
“Good girl,” she praises me when I do as she instructs. My skin crawls at her approval, like ants scurrying through an anthill. That is the last thing she says as she lotions, polishes, sugars, and primps my body and hair for the next two hours. By the time she is done, my ginger hair is curled, my face painted, and my skin shines like a brand-new car at the dealership.
I have a sinking feeling there is more to tonight than a simple dinner request.
That feeling grows the moment I see the dress laid out for me on the bed. It is a simple yet luxurious maroon velvet strapless cocktail dress with a sweetheart neckline that dips just low enough to hint at inappropriate. The bosom is slightly ruched, and the hem barely falls to mid-thigh when I stretch the fabric over my curvy frame.
Wonderful.
“Come,” Narana commands. She takes me roughly by the elbow and leads me, stumbling in my stripper heels, from the room. After another few twists and turns, and a few stairs I nearly break my neck on, we arrive.
“Jesus,” I mutter distastefully. There has to be a worse word than gaudy.
Horrendously opulent, maybe?
The walls are painted a deep red, and the wood beneath my feet is blacker than charcoal. The dark cherry dining room table spans the room seating for over a dozen guests, yet only five seats have place settings.
Also in black.
Maybe my Dracula theory has merit.
Or the bitch just likes the color that represents her soul.
One thing is for sure. This room is where they sacrifice the virgins on the full moon.
At least I can breathe easy on that front.
“Finally,” my grandmother’s voice fills the large expanse, echoing mildly off the low ceiling. She inclines her head at my pug-nosed handler. “Thank you, Narana. That will be all.” Narana bows and lets go of my elbow before she retreats from the room.
What a good little pet for master.
Sheila turns her attention to me. “Much better.” She raises an appraising, well-manicured eyebrow. “A good cleansing can do so much for a person.”
Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I say, “Yes. I’ve always wanted to be washed and primped like a prized cow before auction. I may not be a virgin, but from the way your maid was scrubbing at my vagina, it’s probably shining like gold right now.”
A snarl paints my grandmother’s red lips. “Your attitude could use some work,” she grouses primly, her head high, nose in the air. “So could your crass words. Picked up from those Russian barbarians, no doubt. Not to worry, dear. Those are things easily beaten from a woman.”
“Touch me, and you’ll find out in surprising detail what happens to people who don’t respect my boundaries.” I shrug a shoulder nonchalantly. “Shall I grab one of the candlesticks and give it a go? Miss Scarlett in the dining room with the candlestick sounds like a good narrative for me.”
Ah, there is the reaction I want. The ice beneath the prim façade. Sheila’s brown eyes narrow, her face darkening like thunderclouds. I can see the faint lines of her Botoxed forehead twitching, yearning to get free and wrinkle the smooth expanse.
“I’d watch your tongue if I were you,” she hisses. “You have no idea what I am capable of.”