Lords of Pain: Chapter 8

My sleep is filled with the hot, dreadful sensation of eyes, watching me, waiting. It’s a silly instinct. Ted was never so obvious. I wouldn’t even know he’d been watching me until a photo would arrive of me doing mundane things, completely unaware of his gaze on me. Eating at the table. Doing my homework over a cup of coffee. Pulling all-nighters in the library. Packing my duffle bag. Getting on the bus—any bus, I barely looked—in an attempt to run from him.

I’d been at the boarding school until the summer following my junior year. I knew that I couldn’t go home, so I hopped that random bus and ended up in Colorado. It’s hard getting started when you’re lying about your name and age, but I just about managed. I was even able to live with some of my co-workers, a closet masquerading as a bedroom for three hundred a month. For a while there, things were…

Well, not nice. But as nice as they could be, considering.

And then Ted found me again.

This time, he was beyond angry. The letters I’d been used to getting—full of frustration, but also longing—had turned into nothing but postcards with obscenities and threats scribbled on the back. Eventually, there’d be photos of my roommates with big dark ‘X’ marks over their eyes. It was, quite frankly, almost too ridiculous to take seriously.

The last mail I’d received had been a photo with me and one of my roommates. A guy named Jack.

In the photo, Jack’s hand was on my shoulder and I was smiling back at him. Perfectly innocent, just two casual acquaintances parting ways before conflicting shifts. I’d barely gotten to know Jack at all, in fact. It would have been a stretch to even call us friends. But the back of the photo was full of the same scrawled word, over and over.

Whore.

My first night at the Lords’ house, I only wake once, confused about the pitch-dark room, heart pounding with some phantom awareness that I’m not alone. I lay silently for a long moment, breath caught in my throat, waiting for someone to appear out of the shadows. When it never happens, my pulse slows, the weight of sleep dragging me back into another disturbed slumber.

When I wake again, the sun is streaming through the curtains. I stretch, well aware that even with the memories and paranoia, I’m still probably more well rested than I have been in weeks. I know being in the Lords’ house is a big factor.

As much as I don’t want to admit it, maybe the orgasm didn’t hurt either, unraveling something tense and unwelcome in the deepest parts of me.

A beeping sound catches my attention and I roll over, taking the phone off the bedside table. It’s instantly obvious that it’s not my phone. This one doesn’t have the shattered screen in the right hand corner and is also a much newer model. I run my hand down the sleek sides and look at the screen. A memo from Martin fills the space:

Shower/Dress

(First Day Outfit is in the Closet—marked.)

Put on the wrist cuff

Downstairs by 8 a.m.

Inspection

Breakfast

School

Inspection? I think back to Rath when he saw my worn cotton panties. His displeasure with me not wearing the new lingerie they’d provided was evident. I walk over to the closet. Hanging on the inside of the door is an outfit I hadn’t noticed the day before. There’s a note pinned to the shoulder declaring, “First day.”

It ascends absurdity. No human girl would knowingly wear something like this, I’m convinced. It’s a tennis-style skirt, pleated and short enough that if I bend over, I’m pretty sure it’d show my panties. The fabric is white with black piping at the hem. There’s a top to go with it, a soft-looking shirt that ties at the shoulders. The front drapes slightly in a way that I know will accentuate my breasts. A pair of pristine, white sneakers is on the floor, short socks tucked inside.

“The Lords take it to another level. They’re more than just controlling. It extends to everything. What you wear, when you eat, where you sleep. They completely rule your life. They own you.” The redhead’s voice echoes in my ear from the day of the interview.

On my dresser is a wide leather wrist cuff. I pluck it up, thumbing the bronze skull in the middle. It’s the same as the door knocker. Arranged around it in a triangle are the letters K, T, and D.

Killian, Tristian, Dimitri.

It takes me a moment to realize what this is. Their mark. Something to wear to show others that I belong to them, am owned by them.

The idea of being branded like cattle raises my hackles. I’m not dumb, though. They’re not nearly as mysterious as they like to think they are. I know one reason they picked me is because I’m not like the other girls who wanted to be Lady. I’m not a doll they can dress up and play with. If they wanted someone like that, they should have picked another Lady.

They think they’re the scariest thing in my tiny little world, is the thing. Scary, yes. But they aren’t the worst.

One day, maybe soon, they’re going to figure that out.

Feeling energized and determined, I step into the steaming shower and scrub my entire body. I can’t help but notice my brand of shampoo is on the small shelf nestled in the tiles. Everything else I need, in a variety of product lines and brands, is neatly arranged; body scrubs, loofahs, shaving gel and razors. I take the time to test them all, spoiling myself. The bastards owe me that much.

It takes a little longer than expected to get ready, but I feel better once I’m in my soft jeans and worn hoodie. I ease my feet into my old sneakers and head down the stairs, twisting my hair into a knot as I get to the bottom step.

Martin’s waiting for me at the landing, a clipboard in his hands. He looks up from his watch, eyes immediately assessing my outfit. A deep frown sets in his mouth.

“Did you not get my memo this morning, Lady?”

“I did.” On a very new phone.

Which I think I’ll keep.

“You’re late.” Again, he checks his watch, mouth slanted disapprovingly. “By six minutes. And your attire…”

“Is comfortable,” I conclude.

He briskly corrects, “Is unacceptable.”

“I have three classes today. This is what I would always wear.”

He looks away, patience wearing visibly thin. “Yes, but you are no longer on your time. You made an agreement, signed a contract, to be a Lady with all that entails.” His voice lowers and I hear a tinge of nervousness when he adds, “The Lords won’t be happy.”

“Well, that’s nothing new. The Lords are never happy with me. I’d rather be comfortable.”

“Miss Story…”

He’s interrupted by the thunder of feet on the wooden steps. I turn, stomach dropping at the sight. The three of them are ridiculously gorgeous, each in casual but expensive clothes for a day of classes. But that’s not what’s making my stomach churn unhappily. It’s the expressions on their faces. The instant Killian sees me, his face twists into hard disgust. Tristian’s eyes narrow and calculate. Rath licks his pierced lips, presumably in memory of what happened between us the night before. His gaze bores through me, like he’s envisioning me on that piano, struggling against his hold.

I fight the tingle in my belly, the raised hairs on my arms and the intense urge to flee. Killian had made that perfectly clear: No running.

“Martin,” Killian says slowly, “did you not leave out the outfit we selected for Story today? And our bracelet?”

“Yes, I did, sir.”

His steel gray eyes lock with mine. “So you just willfully disobeyed us.”

I lift my chin, feeling my resolve begin to crumble. “I wanted to be comfortable for the long day ahead.”

Tristian laughs. “Typical college girl. Thinking people care what you want.”

“Martin,” Killian says again, his voice in that same, even, terrifying tone. “Please go upstairs and bring down the approved outfit chosen for Story to wear on her first day as our Lady. And don’t forget the bracelet.”

“Yes, sir.” The little man scurries up the stairs.

“Why does it matter what I wear?” I ask, trying to reason with them. “All you guys ever want is for me to take off my clothes anyway, right? Isn’t that what this is about? Sex? Forcing yourself on me?”

It’s Tristian who answers, his eyes narrowed. “You really like to flatter yourself, don’t you? Today is your first official, public-facing day as our Lady. That means the second you step out that door, you’re representing this house. You’re representing us. It’s about setting a standard.”

Killian agrees, “Anyone can be a convenient hole, Sweet Cherry. We demand excellence.” His gaze sweeps over me like I’m a piece of trash. “What you’re wearing may be acceptable for a common student at Forsyth, but you aren’t common. We aren’t common. We’re Lords and you’re our Lady, and that’s exactly how you’re going to conduct yourself. Am I clear?”

Martin returns, holding the outfit in one hand and the shoes and bracelet in another. “Where shall I direct Miss Story to change,” he asks. “The first floor powder room?”

“No,” Killian replies, crossing his massive arms over his chest. “It’s time for breakfast. Story can change in the dining room while we eat.”

“What?” Surely he can’t mean…

While I gape in disbelief, Martin is already moving, carrying my outfit down the hall toward the dining room. Killian follows him, apparently done with my feeble show of rebellion. Rath is close behind, tossing me a wink that makes a disgusted feeling slither up my spine.

I turn to Tristian, asking, “Is this for real? Are you really going to watch like I’m some sort of dinner theater?”

He grins, but it’s not friendly. He steps forward and places his fingers under my chin, forcing my gaze to his. It’s a move so similar to that night that it makes me stumble back a step, overcome with the sudden, intense sense of memory of him invading my mouth.

“It’s going to be so much fun breaking you down, Sweet Cherry.” He raises a thumb to tug at my bottom lip, pupils dilating at the sight. “Something I don’t think you understand about us, is that although we’re ready to do the hard work of molding you into the perfect girl, none of us are very patient. I suggest you get in that room and do as you’re told.”

I don’t dare to respond, instead jerking my head away from his grasp. If this is the punishment for not dressing right, then I’d hate to see the punishment for back-talk. With heavy feet, I follow him down the hall toward the dining room, a lump rising into my throat with every step.

The instant I step inside, I’m struck by the delicious scent of breakfast foods—pancakes, bacon, toast, eggs. The plates are huge, fit for the large men sitting around the table. My stomach growls, but even though the only thing I’ve eaten in days was half of the plate left for me last night, the three place settings make it clear that I haven’t been invited to eat with them. And now that I’m being punished—in the form of being their morning entertainment—it’s not even clear if I’ll get to eat at all.

The outfit Martin brought down is laid out on the table; the skirt, the top, and a lacy pair of panties. I stare numbly at them, pushing down the nausea in my stomach, futilely trying to convince myself this isn’t a big deal. It’s just flesh. Some days, it feels like this body was never my own to begin with. Why start feeling possessive over it now?

“I suggest you get moving,” Killian says, taking a sip of orange juice. “If you’re not ready by the time we leave for campus, the consequences will be unfortunate.”

My eyes dart to Tristian, who appears completely unfazed as he eats a huge forkful of something resembling fruit. I then give Rath one last look, hoping that something must have passed between us last night. Some connection. A fondness. Anything that would make him step in and stop this.

Instead, he’s staring right at me, those dark eyes sparkling as if he can’t wait. He even hums when he slathers his pancakes with butter.

Whatever. I can do this, I think, standing before the clothes. I agreed to this stupid shit-show and belittling me is one of their favorite games. I take a deep breath and turn to the side where I don’t have to look at them. My fingers shake as I unzip my hoodie, revealing the free FU T-shirt I’d been giving upon registering. I drape it over one of the chairs, then unbutton my jeans, sliding them over my hips and down my legs. Balancing myself on the edge of the table, I kick them off my feet. The air in the room is chilly on my freshly shaved legs. I shiver and regretfully pull my shirt over my head. Glancing at the other end of the table, I see that while the guys continue to eat, they’re still watching me closely. Rath’s eyes are fixed on my chest, my nipples peaked, both from the exposure and the hot gaze of the guys. He slowly licks syrup off his fingers, one by one.

Tristian tilts his head and declares, “You know, I don’t totally mind the ratty panties. Plays into my Cinderella fantasies.”

Killian just peers at his watch and inhales two pieces of bacon. To be honest, I’m just glad he doesn’t have his hands down his pants. That’d be the way to ruin breakfast for me forever.

Reaching for the bra clasp on my back, I start to turn, shielding myself. “Ah ah ah,” Tristian sharply chides, “I don’t think so. You know how much I love to look at your tits, Sweet Cherry.”

Trying my best to ignore him, I take off my bra and quickly lower my panties. Every inch of my skin burns with heat and humiliation. If I thought this was going to be easy, I was mistaken. Their eyes wolfishly drink me in, and as usual, my body threatens to betray me, prickling with a confused tangle of dread and stimulation. Because it’s not just hatred I see in their eyes. It’s want. They want me despite everything, and I don’t know how to handle that.

I want to make this moment of complete nakedness as brief as possible, so I dive for the bastard-approved panties.

“No.” Killian’s voice rings out loud and sharp, bringing my movements to a jerking halt. “Bracelet first.” Gnashing my teeth against a wave of anger, I snatch the cuff from the table and loop it around my wrist. He adds, “Wearing that is a privilege. It means you belong to us.”

“You can take it off to shower,” Rath says, lazy eyes still roving my bare body. “But otherwise, we want it on you at all times.”

“All times,” Killian stresses.

“Fine,” I grind out, snapping the cuff into place before once again going for the underwear.

This time, it’s Tristian who stops me. “What’s the rush, Lady? I think we should get a good look at you, wearing nothing but our mark.” The smirk on his mouth is full of humor, knowing exactly how badly I want to cover up.

Fed up with the game, I give in, extending my arms, turning toward them, allowing them to look their fill. “Happy?” I spit, glaring daggers at them all.

The smirk fades from Tristian’s face, replaced by something stonier. “No, I don’t think I am. You’re not treating this privilege with the respect it deserves. Come here so I can get a closer look.” His tone is full of warning, possibly of a greater punishment.

“I thought we didn’t have much time,” I argue, glare shifting to my stepbrother.

Tristian replies, “The longer you take, the less time we’ll have.”

Killian raises an eyebrow, jerking his chin toward Tristian. I take it as the order it is. Taking a long, hard, steadying breath, I step around the table to Tristian’s side, fixing my eyes to a point on the wall.

Tristian hums, turning to me. “Your tits really are pretty nice, you know? You shouldn’t hide them under all those ugly, cheap things.” He punctuates this by tipping forward and taking one into his mouth.

I inhale sharply, caught off guard, but the look in his eyes as he tongues my stiff nipple is full of a warning that he doesn’t need to verbalize. I stay put, hands tightening into shaking fists as he assaults my nipple with long, sucking kisses, only pulling back to meet my gaze as the sharp point of his tongue dances around it. The feel of it sends hot sparks down my chest, straight into the pit of my stomach, settling like electricity between my legs.

I can’t help my flinch when he wedges a hand between my thighs, climbing up, fingers grazing just below—

“We don’t have time for that,” Killian’s sharp voice rings out.

Tristian holds my gaze as his hand slides away, mouth leaving me with a final parting kiss to my breast. “We’ll finish this later,” he promises in a ragged voice, but not before giving one of my ass cheeks a playful smack.

When they say nothing else, I dress, first pulling on the panties, then the shirt and skirt. I’m still shaky and furious, so embarrassed that every inch of my skin feels set ablaze with it. My nipple is damp and still tingling from the feeling of Tristian’s hot mouth and the way he played with me.

Because that’s exactly what this is. They’re just toying with me. Hoping for my anger, my humiliation.

I won’t give it to them.

Killian eats another plate of eggs while I slip on my socks and shoes. I stand and look at them expectantly. “Is this appropriate enough for you?”

“Go fix your hair,” Killian says, waving me off. “It looks like a fucking rat’s nest.”

I only just manage not to sprint from the room, leaving my old clothes discarded on the dining room floor. Martin, who’s waiting in the hallway with my bag, hands me a hairbrush and a protein bar. “You may use the powder room down the hall. Don’t take long, they’ll be leaving soon and will expect you to be ready.”

I take them from him and enter the bathroom, taking a moment to stare at myself. My cheeks are flushed, the tip of my nose is red, and yeah, my hair is a mess. Underneath all that is the slowly fading buzz of…something. I’m not sure what it is, but it feels a lot like defeat.

It’s hard to think all this degradation and humiliation could be worth it. Maybe, if Ted had been nothing but scary letters and creepy stalking, the answer would have been no.

Then I remember the last time I saw Jack. The way the light from the lamp had made his face look almost…shiny. How it’d taken me too long to realize it was blood. I remember the silence of his little room in Colorado and how I’d stood there for too long—stunned, checked-out—without noticing the word painted on the wall in his thick, darkening blood.

Whore.

It’s all so much easier then.

I fix my hair up real nice for them, looking just as empty as I feel. Just as empty as they want me to be.

Because they might not know it yet, but eventually, Ted will come. He’ll make these three his new target. And if I know Killian and his friends, they’ll fight back harder than anyone else would.

Yes.

Being their toy will be easy.

The hard part will be deciding who I want to lose more.