I feel him behind me before I see him.
I’ve barely made it to the door of the ladies’ washroom when I’m spun around and pulled into a dark corner off the main hall, pressed against the stone.
“Get your hands off me,” I hiss, glaring at the ruddy face of Lord Claudius. His wine-soaked breath is putrid, even more volatile now than it was when we were dancing.
This is the last straw of my sanity, after having been paraded around on the arms of several men, dancing until my feet went numb. When Marisol had me practice, I had assumed it was to dance with my husband-to-be, not with everyone else attending.
But Michael has barely spared me a glance all night. He gave a halfhearted speech about how his cousin had been ill long before this evening, and how he was lucky to have me at his side through the sorrow of his loss, but since then, he’s been a ghost, pawning me off as if I’m an obligation he can’t wait to be rid of.
“You’ll regret this when you’re sober,” I try again, pushing against the lapels of his tuxedo.
“You’re a beautiful woman, milady,” he slurs. “No one would blame me for sampling the goods.”
“His Majesty would blame you,” I reply, panic creeping through my muscles. “You’d be put to death.”
His fat fingers slide down the front of my ball gown, scrunching the satin and lace, his forearm pressing against my windpipe, increasing pressure until my airway starts to close.
“No one would believe you.” He chuckles. “You’re practically begging for it.”
Sharp razors slice down my throat as I struggle to breathe. I glance down the hallway as best I can, hoping to see anyone around to calm the situation.
But no one is here.
His hips press against me, the thick ridge of his erection prodding my stomach as his palm grips my sides. I attempt to move my arms, hoping that I can get to the daggers on my thigh, but his body weight is bearing down and I have no control of my limbs.
My father taught me to be proficient in swords and daggers, and my aim with a pistol is almost perfect.
But he didn’t train me well enough for this.
I allow my body to go lax against him, hoping that if I stop fighting, maybe he’ll loosen his grip. He grunts, thrusting himself into my belly, grinning as spittle flies from his mouth onto the side of my neck. He pulls at my skirts, the sound of the fabric tearing like an arrow to my chest, fear bleeding in to mix with the beats of my heart. He continues his trek until my stockings are exposed, running his hand underneath my chemise, his meaty fingers slipping to the inside of my thigh, bypassing the lace frill of my drawers until he meets my skin.
I’m thankful he either didn’t feel the cool metal of my daggers, or he’s too drunk to notice, and bile crawls up my throat, nausea churning so sharply, I pray I vomit all over him, if only to get him away.
“Fucking heavy dresses,” he mumbles, his arm pushing harder against my throat. He moves back to adjust, his hand centimeters away from brushing the soft curls between my legs, and I take the opportunity, my heart slamming against my chest as I reach next to his palm and remove one of the blades from my leather garter.
I snap it up to his throat, pressing the sharp edge against his jugular.
He drops my dress and stumbles back, tripping over himself, his eyes growing wide.
“Be careful who you corner in dark hallways,” I hiss, liquid heat surging through my veins. “You never know which one of us has hidden claws.”
Now it’s me who moves into him, walking us backward until he slams against the opposite wall, his hands flying up in surrender.
“Should I end your life here?” I ask, running my hand down the front of his person, disgust and rage mixing until I’m gagging from the taste. I bypass the waistline of his pants and grip his testicles in my palm, twisting through the fabric until he cries out.
“After all,” I continue, bringing my lips close to his ear. “You’re practically begging for it.”
I squeeze tighter, my wrist rotating so his skin stretches even more, and I can feel his Adam’s apple bob beneath my knife, my hand jostling with the movement.
A thin cut appears when I push the edge of the blade in farther, blood trickling down the front of his esophagus and over his bow tie until it stains the crisp white of his shirt.
It would be so easy to slit his throat, and my body vibrates with the need. I grit my teeth, forcing the blade deeper, his labored breathing stinging my nostrils with its stench.
There’s a loud clack of shoes echoing from down the hall, and I step back, hiding the blade behind my back, not wanting anyone to see that I have one or that I know how to use it.
Both of us stand, stunned and in silence, Claudius swaying in his spot.
Eventually, the footsteps disappear.
My body flies forward as I’m jostled from his stocky frame shoving by me, running down the hall until he too disappears from my view.
I consider chasing him for a few moments, but the adrenaline has already worn off, being replaced by a heavy sick feeling that weighs me down from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. Sinking against the stone wall, I raise my hand to my mouth, muffling the sob that breaks free. My eyes slam shut, trying to stem the tears, afraid to let them fall; not wanting to give that pathetic excuse of a man any more power than he’s already had.
But a few escape, anyway.
They’re hot as they trail down my cheeks, and they feel a lot like failure.
You’re okay. You stopped him. You’re strong.
I stand back up on shaky legs, making my way into the washroom, my body jumping with every single creak of noise; my nerves nothing but frayed edges unraveling at the seam.
He didn’t get far, yet somehow, I still feel like he stripped something of mine away.
My dagger trembles in my hand as I reach out and turn on the faucet, running the blade beneath the water to wash away the small drops of blood, hoping that maybe by doing so, it will also cleanse the scratches he’s caused on my soul.
Because while he didn’t take my innocence, he took something far worse.
My dignity.
And I’m not sure how to gain it back.
