Joy's Perspective

Joy, a demon bound by contract to serve humans, lives under the protection of the Velez brothers. But her former captor, Marcelo, remains obsessed with reclaiming what he considers his “unfinished masterpiece.”

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I felt him before I saw him, a prickling awareness at the back of my neck, a sudden weight to the air that had nothing to do with the market’s humidity. My body recognized the threat before my conscious mind processed it, instincts honed through trauma responding to danger.

Continuing forward as if I hadn’t noticed, I scanned the crowd for Jacobi and Selwyn. They had left barely ten minutes ago, drawn away by an urgent message from one of Jacobi’s business associates. The timing now struck me as suspiciously convenient.

I kept my pace measured, weaving through market stalls as I calculated my options. The main thoroughfare offered safety in numbers but also witnesses who might report a Naerithi “causing trouble.” The side streets provided fewer observers but more vulnerability. Either choice carried risks.

Too late, I realized I’d wandered into the worst possible location, a narrow passage between a spice merchant’s stall and the market’s boundary wall. Not quite a dead end, but nearly. I turned to retrace my steps just as Marcelo stepped into the alley entrance, blocking my path.

“Alone at last.” His voice carried that particular blend of civility and menace that still haunted my nightmares.

I didn’t respond, keeping my expression neutral while my mind raced. The spice merchant had his back turned, focused on a customer. The main thoroughfare was visible but too distant for an effective call for help. No one would intervene for a Naerithi in the human quarter, regardless.

Marcelo stepped closer, eliminating the space between us. I retreated until my back pressed against the rough stone wall, instinctively seeking solid ground. The moment I did, I realized my mistake. I’d backed myself into a corner, giving him exactly what he wanted.

He placed one hand beside my head, his body language a perverse parody of casual conversation. The pose was calculated: appearing non-threatening to casual observers while effectively caging me, creating the illusion I had options when he’d methodically eliminated them all.

Marcelo’s tone turned falsely concerned while his eyes remained coldly calculating. “You shouldn’t be walking the markets alone. Not all humans are as... restrained as I am.”

My skin crawled at his proximity, but I kept my voice steady. “Restrained isn’t the word I’d use. Nor is ‘alone’ my current circumstance.”

I held my ground, refusing to shrink despite the trembling that threatened to overtake my limbs. Any sign of weakness would only encourage him. He fed on fear, on vulnerability, on power imbalances he could exploit.

A smile touched his lips without reaching his eyes. “No? I don’t see your pet aristocrat or his softhearted brother. Or did you mean me?”

His hand moved toward my face in a gesture of false intimacy that made my stomach clench. I turned away sharply, refusing the contact.

I injected certainty into my voice despite knowing how long it might take them to realize the message was false, to track me through the crowded market. “They’ll be looking for me.”

“Of course they will. Eventually.” The implied threat hung between us. We both knew what could happen in the meantime.

I assessed my situation with brutal clarity. Physical resistance would trigger law enforcement intervention, which would inevitably favor the human over the Naerithi, regardless of circumstances. Screaming would draw attention but not necessarily help. Strategic engagement seemed the safest immediate option. Keep him talking until an escape opportunity presented itself.

“What do you want, Marcelo?”

“Just a conversation. Is that so threatening?”

He leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear, sending revulsion cascading through me.

“Though your reaction is... illuminating. Are you afraid of me, Joy?”

The question was a trap. Admit fear and increase his sense of power, deny it and invite him to prove it. I chose a third option: silence. My heartbeat thundered in my ears as I focused on controlling my breathing, on maintaining the appearance of calm while scanning for any chance of escape.

I finally replied when the silence stretched too long. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“Then listen.”

His hand settled on my shoulder, fingers digging in when I tried to shift away. The casual observer would see a man touching a woman in conversation. Only I felt the bruising pressure, the deliberate pain.

“The world is changing. The power balance is shifting. Jacobi’s influence wanes while mine grows.”

I kept my voice level despite the knot of revulsion growing in my stomach. “I’m not a prize in your power struggle. And I don’t belong to either of you.”

“Everyone belongs to someone, little demon.”

His fingers traced the collar around my neck, the purple gems cool against my flushed skin. Jacobi’s collar, which I wore by choice, a concept Marcelo couldn’t comprehend.

“You wear Jacobi’s ownership openly enough.”

I emphasized the distinction, knowing it was crucial even if he would never understand it. “I chose this collar. I choose it daily.”

Marcelo laughed, the sound genuine but chilling. “Choice is a luxury few can afford, and none can sustain. We all serve something or someone in the end.”

His finger hooked under the collar, tugging slightly, the gentle action belying the violence it implied.

“Regardless, I’ve come to make you an offer.”

The words came immediately, recognizing the danger in even appearing to consider whatever he proposed. “I’m not interested.”

“You haven’t heard the terms.”

His hand moved from my collar to my throat, resting against my pulse point. Not squeezing, just... present. A reminder of vulnerability, of how easily he could cut off my air.

“Cooperation now could spare you considerable discomfort later.”

I forced myself to maintain eye contact despite every instinct screaming to look away, to submit, to do anything to end this encounter. Submitting to predators only encouraged them, a lesson I’d learned through blood and pain in his cellar.

“The last time I was alone with you, you carved your family crest into my flesh. Forgive me if I find your concern for my comfort suspect.”

His thumb stroked along my jawline in a gesture that might have appeared tender to an observer but felt like contamination against my skin. “That was just the beginning. Our time together was cut short. Unfinished business, you might say.”

The implication crystallized with sickening clarity. “You want to continue what you started in the cellar.”

Marcelo’s voice dropped to a murmur that sent ice through my veins. “Want is such an inadequate word. I’ve thought of little else since you escaped. The unfinished patterns on your skin. The tests of endurance we’d only begun to explore.”

His eyes held a hunger that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with possession.

“You were meant to be my masterpiece.”

My voice came steadier than I felt. “I’m not your canvas. And I never will be again.”

“You speak as if you have a choice.”

His reasonable tone was at odds with the possessive hand now curved around my neck.

“As if Jacobi’s protection is absolute rather than circumstantial. As if your current freedom is anything but temporary.”

Fear-sweat gathered between my shoulder blades, the brand he’d carved there seeming to burn anew with remembered pain. I recognized his tactics, the alternation between threat and false reason, the steady erosion of certainty, the methodical dismantling of hope.

“All I need to do is submit to whatever torments you’ve designed. Allow myself to be reduced to your possession once more.”

His hand slipped from my throat to my shoulder, then down my arm in a gesture that might have appeared affectionate to any passerby. The gentle touch revolted me more than outright violence would have, the perversion of intimacy, the mockery of consent. “You make it sound so unpleasant. The experience could be quite painless, even pleasurable, with the right... approach.”

Bile rose in my throat at the implication. I pressed my palms against the wall behind me, focusing on the rough texture to ground myself in physical sensation, to prevent the dissociation that threatened to overtake me. The spice merchant had moved on, leaving us effectively hidden from the main thoroughfare. I needed to end this conversation and return to populated areas immediately.

“The answer is no.”

Marcelo’s voice dropped lower. “Consider carefully before refusing. I have ways of obtaining what I want, with or without cooperation. I’m offering you dignity, Joy. The alternative will have none.”

I spotted a gap in his positioning, a potential escape route to my left. “There’s no dignity in coercion disguised as choice. Now move.”

Instead of yielding, Marcelo’s other hand came to rest on the wall, effectively caging me between his arms. The casual pose had transformed into explicit entrapment, physical manifestation of the truth I’d tried to deny: I had never been in control of this encounter.

A new edge entered his voice. “You’re not listening. This isn’t an invitation to be declined. It’s a courtesy notification of what will happen. The only variable is how unpleasant the process becomes.”

Fear cascaded through me, but I channeled it into anger, into determination. I would not be passive prey. “Jacobi will never allow it.”

Satisfaction seeped into his tone. “Jacobi’s influence has limits. Particularly when he’s... preoccupied with other matters. Your precious protector can’t watch you every moment.”

The calculated cruelty of his patience chilled me. Marcelo wasn’t acting on impulse but on strategy. He had created this opportunity, would create others, would wait for the perfect moment to reclaim what he considered his property.

I injected authority into my voice despite our relative positions. “Get your hands off me. Now.”

“Or what?” The challenge held genuine curiosity. “Will you attack me in broad daylight? In the human quarter? We both know the consequences of that choice.”

I did. Immediate arrest, probable execution. The law did not recognize self-defense for Naerithi against humans. Any violence, regardless of provocation, was grounds for termination of the “dangerous specimen.” The inescapable trap of my position crashed down on me. I couldn’t fight, couldn’t flee, couldn’t acquiesce. Every option led to pain or worse.

I replied, clinging to the only hope I had. “I won’t need to. Jacobi and Selwyn are likely already searching for me. How do you think they’ll react to finding us like this?”

Calm certainty filled his voice. “By the time they find us, this conversation will be concluded. And you will have learned exactly how temporary your freedom truly is.”

His hand moved from the wall to my face, fingers tangling in my white hair with sudden roughness. The shift from false gentility to overt control was jarring but not unexpected. I kept my expression neutral despite the painful grip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing my fear.

Even as I recognized the futility of resistance in this moment. Sometimes survival meant enduring until escape became possible. “I have no intention of giving you what you want.”

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Marcelo tugged my head back to force eye contact. “Intention matters less than circumstance. And your circumstances are, shall we say, limited.”

When I attempted to turn away from his gaze, his grip in my hair tightened painfully, and he slammed my head back against the stone wall with deliberate force. Stars exploded across my vision, momentary disorientation stealing my resistance as the world tilted and blurred.

Marcelo took immediate advantage of my stunned state, pressing his body against mine. The unwanted contact sent revulsion cascading through me, my skin crawling beneath my clothing at every point where his body touched mine. As my vision cleared, I fought to control my reaction, to prevent the trembling that would betray my fear and disgust.

His fingers slipped beneath the hem of my shirt, the contact with bare skin making my stomach clench with visceral revulsion. His touch was cold against my heated skin, deliberate as he traced upward along my ribs.

His academic tone provided a perverse contrast to his actions. “I’ve spent months imagining our reunion. All the ways I might continue your education. All the responses I’ve yet to catalog.”

My entire body went rigid as his hand moved higher, cupping my breast roughly through my undergarment. His thumb circled my nipple with clinical precision, studying my involuntary physical response with detached fascination. The violation sent waves of nausea through me, but I forced myself to remain present. Dissociation now would only increase my vulnerability.

He murmured as my body reacted to physical stimulation despite my psychological revulsion. “Fascinating. The disconnect between mind and physiology. You despise my touch, yet your body reacts all the same.”

The observation hit like a physical blow, the recognition that he understood the betrayal of my own nervous system, that he would use my body’s mechanical responses to undermine my agency, to create doubt about my own rejection of him. It was a tactic he had employed in the cellar, creating a fundamental split between mind and body that was almost more violating than the physical touch itself.

His other hand slid from my hair to grip my throat, just tight enough to remind me of my vulnerability without cutting off air. “I wonder if you respond to Jacobi with such immediacy? Or does he have to work for these reactions?”

The comparison to Jacobi, the deliberate contamination of something sacred through something profane, sparked renewed determination. I would endure. I would survive. I would not allow Marcelo to poison what Jacobi and I shared.

His knee pushed between my thighs, forcing them apart as he pressed his body fully against mine. The intimate contact made bile rise in my throat, but I forced myself to remain still, knowing resistance would only excite him further. Sometimes stillness was the only weapon available.

He whispered against my ear, his breath hot on my skin, sending fresh waves of revulsion through me. “I could take you right here. Against this wall, with the market crowd just steps away. None would intervene for a Naerithi. Some might even watch.”

The degradation inherent in the threat, not just violation but public humiliation, was calculated to break something inside me. To render me compliant through the sheer horror of the alternative. I felt myself fragmenting, part of me ready to retreat deep inside where no violation could reach, another part clinging desperately to presence, to awareness, to possibility of escape.

His hand moved from my breast to the waistband of my leggings, fingers playing with the edge. “Should we test that theory? See how your precious Jacobi reacts when he finds you used and discarded in a public alley?”

The hand at my throat tightened fractionally. “Or perhaps I should simply mark you again? Add to my unfinished masterpiece?”

His fingers traced along the waistband without slipping beneath, a threatening promise of further violation.

“There are so many unmarked expanses of skin left to claim.”

The culmination of threats, violation, public humiliation, permanent marking, finally broke my strategic stillness. I jerked away with enough force to bang my head against the stone wall behind me. The pain was clarifying, a welcome alternative to the contamination of his touch, to the psychological torture of his words.

The hand at my waistband now shifted to grip my hip painfully. “Such resistance. Yet you submit so willingly to Jacobi and Selwyn. The double standard is... intriguing.”

I managed the words with difficulty against the renewed pressure on my throat. “Consent isn’t a double standard. It’s the only standard that matters.”

Marcelo’s hand moved lower to press against me through the thin fabric of my leggings. “Consent is a human construct. One your species adopted out of necessity, not nature. In Naerith, power determines right, does it not? The strong take. The weak yield. We’re merely following your natural order.”

His fingers moved in deliberate, invasive circles against the fabric, intimate and violating without the barrier being removed. I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood, focusing on that self-inflicted pain rather than the unwanted touch between my thighs. The taste of copper filled my mouth, anchoring me to my body even as my mind sought escape from the violation.

His voice still carried that academic detachment that somehow made the situation more horrifying. “Consider this a preview. When I finally reclaim you, Joy, I’ll take my time. Days, perhaps weeks, of careful work. Your escape has only made me more... thorough in my planning.”

I focused on a point beyond his shoulder, refusing to give him the satisfaction of eye contact, of acknowledging the unwanted physical stimulation he was methodically applying despite my revulsion. Staring at the sky visible beyond the market wall, I pictured Jacobi and Selwyn searching for me, tried to will them closer through sheer desperation.

Clinical interest filled his voice. “Your body is honest, even when you aren’t. Fascinating how physiology operates independently of consent. I wonder if Jacobi knows how responsive you are to other men’s touch?”

The sound of marketplace haggling continued beyond our hidden alcove, the normality of it a surreal counterpoint to what was happening against this wall. No one would intervene, not for a Naerithi. Even if they noticed, most humans would pretend not to see, the violation of a demon beneath their concern.

Marcelo continued, his fingers maintaining their steady rhythm. “When I’m finished with you, I’ll return you to Jacobi. Used but unharmed, technically speaking. He’ll accept you back, he’s too obsessed not to. But things will be different between you.”

His mouth curved in a smile I felt rather than saw.

“He’ll know another man has touched what he considered exclusively his. That you responded to that touch, however unwillingly. The knowledge will poison what you share. He’ll see my hands on you every time he reaches for you.”

The calculated psychological cruelty of this prediction struck deeper than the physical violation. Marcelo understood exactly what to target, not my body, which could heal, but the connection with Jacobi and Selwyn that sustained me. The trust that had taken months to build after my rescue from the cellar.

My voice came steadier than I felt. “You’re wrong about them. Wrong about me.”

His fingers pressed harder, forcing an involuntary physical response that disgusted me even as it satisfied his point. “Am I? Your body says otherwise. Remember this moment, Joy. Remember how little control you truly have over your circumstances or your own reactions. The illusion of choice Jacobi permits you is just that, illusion. When power truly asserts itself, you yield like any other creature.”

Just as I felt myself beginning to splinter under the combined physical and psychological assault, a shadow fell across us.

Selwyn’s voice cut through my dissociation like a lifeline thrown to a drowning woman. Each word fell like a stone, heavy with promise. “Step away from her.”

Marcelo didn’t move immediately, his hand still intimately pressed against me. “Private business. Nothing that concerns you.”

Selwyn replied, his tone unchanged. “Everything about Joy concerns me. And my brother. Who is currently approaching from the other side of the market.”

Relief cascaded through me at Selwyn’s presence, at the mention of Jacobi nearby. I hadn’t been forgotten. They had discovered the false message. They had found me.

Marcelo’s hands remained where they were, still violating, still controlling. “This is merely a conversation between old acquaintances. Nothing requiring intervention.”

Selwyn stepped closer. “Remove your hands from her. Or discover exactly how much damage I can inflict before my brother arrives.”

The threat wasn’t empty. For all his usual restraint, Selwyn harbored a darkness few witnessed. I had seen glimpses during my recovery, the cold rage when he changed my bandages, the controlled violence when he spoke of Marcelo. He would risk consequences to protect me, just as I would for him.

Marcelo must have recognized the genuine danger, for he finally stepped back, his hands withdrawing with deliberate slowness, as if to emphasize this was his choice rather than submission to Selwyn’s demand. The sudden absence of his weight left me momentarily unsteady, my body processing the removal of threat while my mind still reeled from the violation.

He smoothed his jacket with casual elegance, as if the preceding minutes had been a civilized exchange. “Another time, then. Our conversation remains unfinished, Joy. This changes nothing about my intentions, merely the timeline.”

He turned to leave, then paused, adding over his shoulder: “Until next time, little demon. And there will be a next time. I’m nothing if not patient.”

With that parting threat, he disappeared into the crowd, his confident stride betraying no awareness of how narrowly he had avoided violence. No awareness of how deeply he had violated me in those brief minutes, how the ghost of his touch would linger on my skin despite all attempts to cleanse it.

Selwyn was beside me instantly, hands hovering near but not touching me, respecting boundaries even in crisis. “Did he hurt you?”

The question seemed absurdly inadequate to what had just occurred, yet I appreciated its simplicity. Physical injury, the kind that showed, that could be treated, was not what concerned me most. The violation went deeper, would leave no visible marks.

The words came automatically though not entirely true. “Nothing lasting. How did you find me?”

Selwyn explained, scanning me with careful eyes. “Jacobi realized the message separating us was falsified. We split up to search. What did he want?”

I hesitated, the full implications of Marcelo’s assault too complex to articulate in a market alleyway. The violation, both completed and threatened, too raw to name. “What he always wants. Control. Possession. Revenge for my escape.”

Understanding darkened Selwyn’s features. “He mentioned waiting for months. Planning.”

“Yes.” I straightened my clothing with hands that betrayed only the slightest tremor, reclaiming composure through small, deliberate actions. “He sees me as his unfinished masterpiece. His obsession has only grown since I escaped.”

Cold fury flickered across Selwyn’s face, followed by a rage so icy it seemed to lower the temperature around us. “Did he...”

“Not fully.” I interrupted, unwilling to voice the specifics. “You arrived in time.”

Relief flickered across his face, though the fury remained. “We need to tell Jacobi.”

“No.” I said quickly, then moderated my tone at Selwyn’s surprised expression. “Not the details. Not yet. He’ll blame himself for leaving me, for not foreseeing the false message. I won’t add to that burden.”

Selwyn studied me for a long moment before nodding. “Your choice. But Jacobi needs to know Marcelo is actively hunting you. That this wasn’t a chance encounter.”

I pushed away from the wall, testing my balance. The ghost of unwanted touch lingered on my skin, made worse by knowing my body had responded physiologically even as my mind recoiled. It was a betrayal I’d experienced in the cellar, the body’s mechanical reactions operating independently of consent or desire.

“Let’s find Jacobi.” I agreed, needing to move, to escape the shadow of this wall and the memory of what had happened against it. “But the specifics remain between us. For now.”

Selwyn nodded, falling into step beside me as we moved toward the market center. He maintained a careful distance, close enough for protection, far enough for comfort. Unlike Marcelo, Selwyn never used proximity as control.

“He was waiting for an opportunity.” I said as we walked. “The message that separated us was deliberate.”

Self-recrimination was evident in Selwyn’s voice. “We shouldn’t have left you.”

I replied, perhaps more sharply than intended. The encounter with Marcelo had left me raw, on edge. “I’m not a possession requiring constant guard.”

Selwyn agreed quietly. “But you’re someone we care about, living in a world designed to exploit any vulnerability.” He glanced at me. “That’s not possession. It’s protection.”

The distinction mattered, as it always had between us. Marcelo saw no difference between possession and protection, both were simply mechanisms of control in his worldview. Jacobi and Selwyn understood that protection without respect for autonomy was merely another form of captivity.

We found Jacobi at the market center, his expression shifting from concern to relief when he spotted us. He moved directly to me, eyes scanning for injury with the same careful attention Selwyn had shown.

His voice was low enough that only I could hear. “Are you hurt?”

The word wasn’t entirely truthful, though the physical violations were minor compared to what Marcelo had threatened. “No. But we need to leave. Now.”

Jacobi nodded, perceiving my urgency without demanding immediate explanation. This too distinguished him from Marcelo, the willingness to prioritize my needs over his desire for information.

As we moved toward the market exit, Selwyn related a sanitized version of the encounter, mentioning Marcelo’s presence and threats but omitting the more intimate violations out of respect for my privacy. Jacobi’s expression hardened with each detail, though he maintained his public composure with practiced ease.

Quiet certainty filled Jacobi’s voice when Selwyn finished, both comforting and concerning. “He won’t touch you again.”

Revenge against Marcelo would require resources, planning, risk, all for a Naerithi that human law considered property rather than person.

I added as we reached the carriage. “His fixation has only grown. This wasn’t opportunistic. He planned the separation, waited for the right moment.”

Jacobi’s jaw tightened. “Then we plan better. No more separations. No more vulnerability for him to exploit.”

The protective declaration should have felt confining but instead offered relief. Marcelo’s threats, both explicit and implied, had shaken me more than I wanted to admit. The knowledge that he watched, waited, planned for my moments of vulnerability had reopened wounds I’d believed healed.

I climbed into the carriage. “He sees me as unfinished business. His obsession won’t diminish with time.”

Jacobi took the seat opposite me with quiet intensity. “Neither will our vigilance. Neither will my commitment to your safety.”

The promise offered comfort despite the day’s violations. Marcelo viewed me as a possession to reclaim, a canvas to complete, an object to dominate. Jacobi and Selwyn saw me as a person whose choices and boundaries deserved respect, even when those choices placed me in danger, even when those boundaries required patience to navigate.

As the carriage carried us back to the estate, I touched the collar around my neck, the purple gems cool against my fingertips. Marcelo had tried to use it as evidence of my willingness to be owned, not understanding that what looked like submission from outside could be strength from within. The collar represented not capitulation but alliance, not surrender but strategy.

The memory of his touch lingered, a phantom contamination I would need to cleanse. Tonight, I would reclaim my body through chosen intimacy with men who understood consent wasn’t merely permission but enthusiastic participation. Who recognized that power exchanged willingly differed fundamentally from power taken by force or coercion.

Tomorrow would require strength, clarity, and the particular kind of courage needed to fight an obsessive predator who viewed me as his unfinished canvas. Tomorrow would demand strategies, contingencies, preparations against a man whose patience matched his cruelty.

But today, in this carriage, with these men who protected without possessing, I allowed myself the vulnerability I could never show Marcelo. I let my shoulders drop, my breath steady, my guard lower fractionally.

Selwyn asked quietly, his concern evident but not intrusive. “Are you truly unharmed?”

I admitted the truth, easier here than in the public square. “No. But I will be.”

Jacobi nodded, understanding the distinction between injury and defeat. “We’ll weather this, Joy. Together.”

The promise carried weight because it came without demands, without the expectation of submission Marcelo attached to his offers of “protection.” These men had earned my trust through consistent respect for boundaries Marcelo refused to acknowledge existed.

As the carriage passed through the estate gates, I felt something inside me settle. The encounter in the market had shaken me, reopened wounds I’d believed healed, reminded me of vulnerabilities I preferred to forget. But it had also clarified something essential: the difference between chosen submission and forced compliance wasn’t merely semantic. It was the difference between partnership and subjugation, between respect and exploitation.

Marcelo would never understand that distinction. It was why, despite all his power and obsession, he would ultimately fail to claim what he sought from me.

Because some things could not be taken, only given. And I would never give myself to a man who couldn’t recognize the difference.