The Infernal King | 1 ✓

CHAPTER XXIV | THE UNRAVELLING

WARNING

The following chapter may be triggering to some readers. If you are bothered by it, you can simply skip the scene.

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       THIS WAS HER unravelling—he was unravelling the clothes from her body, the skin from her bones and everything that lay in between. He was taking her self-worth, her pride, her confidence, her strength and the power she had thought she possessed. He was taking everything from her, and she could do nothing but squirm under his touch and uselessly attempt to push him off.

       The silken material of the nightgown she wore was bunched up in the guard's fist as he lifted it. It travelled up past her hips, past her stomach, past her chest. The higher he lifted it, the more anguish Maarit was caused. With each tug, her heart died once again.

       His fingers were everywhere, entirely lacking the gentle caress of a lover. It was all violence, restraint and his hands pressing mauve marks onto her bronze skin.

       When his hands reached her underwear, he tugged them down. She pressed her thighs together with every bit of resolve still left in her, urging herself to keep them that way. He failed to pry them apart with one hand and pulled the other away from her mouth.

       She took the opportunity to scream again into the night, her voice reaching for the castle's inhabitants in the hope of drawing at least one from their oblivious slumber.

       Then she grabbed his face and tried to press her fingers into his eye sockets; he easily deflected the futile attempt and continued his pursuit of what he sought.

       As soon as he had pulled her legs apart, he positioned himself between them so that she could not close them again. To punish her for fighting back, the guard's hand wrapped around her throat, causing Maarit momentary suffocation. She choked and her muscles contracted. She clenched her fists together so tightly that her nails dug into her palms and deep, crescent-shaped marks formed.

       These simply added on to the numerous blemishes he had inflicted upon her body.

       Her neck was released just in time for her to emerge from the brink of unconsciousness. But it had been enough to weaken her more than ever.

       Then she felt pain—nothing but pain. It reddened the corners of her vision, as though her eyes themselves were bleeding. She wanted to scream, to hide, to have the strength to throw him off, and yet none of those were an option at all. All she could do was clench her fists until blood was drawn from her tender palms.

       Both moaned, one in pleasure and one in agony.

       On it continued and every part of Maarit was crying out for a saviour, including her eyes, which allowed a steady flow of teardrops to fall. She could not believe what was happening to her. She needed someone to wake her from this nightmare—this phantasmagoria of torment.

       Her toes curled and her bloody fingertips closed over the sheets. She gripped them, a dizzy spell rolling her eyes to the back of her head. Pants tumbled from her mouth like a river as he whispered obscene things to her in the dark.

       Then, very suddenly, he swore loudly, terminated his assault and scrambled off of her, leaving her throbbing and whimpering. She felt a wave of relief wash over her that he pain had disappeared. The relief mingled with anger, despondency, shame—and together, they formed a mosaic of fervent emotions.