ILLICIT DESIRES | 18 +

05: The Heavens Do Not Answer, but Hell Does

RITA

Never being Enough.

No matter how bright I am.
No matter how pretty I am.
No matter how many times I try to prove myself.

Father will find my flaw and cast me out.

I. Am. Not. Enough.

I will never be given the kind of fawning devotion I crave, or the praise I know I deserve. And it doesn't make me sad — it makes me furious.

Father's devotion to another son-in-law is just fuelling my rage, rather than intoxicating my mind and sharing his twisted mindset.

But can a poisoned mind truly be poisoned again?

I have taken small toxins into myself, drawn from stems and leaves, letting their venom seep slowly through my veins because I craved control more than I feared death.

And now my body belongs only to me.

I decide whether I live or die.
I decide who is allowed to touch me.
I decide who dies from the touch of me.

That is the one thing Father cannot choose for me.

He does not yet understand that he cannot hand me to another man, bind me to him, and expect him to survive it.

I was not made to manage a household. I made myself to cultivate death.

Because I will not be his backup plan.

I will be his prodigy, whether he wishes it or not.

And I do not care how many future husbands I have to bury before Father finally understands.

"I just wanted to know what she looks like," he murmurs, low and almost casual, as though he is inspecting a product instead of a person, making me wonder if he intends to put me on trial as well.

"I already sent you a picture, didn't I?" my father snaps, visibly irritated that Nicolai is scrutinizing his offer consisting of me — his daughter.

"You did," Nicolai hums, nodding slowly, his fingers tapping against the headrest of my seat. "But technology is advanced nowadays. She could simply be photogenic, and I have no desire to marry a tramp."

"And?" my father cuts in sharply. "Are you satisfied with what you see?"

"I am." Nicolai tilts his head slightly. "She's beautiful. Flawless to the eye. But I need to know whether she's rotten on the inside."

His hand moves to his jacket, and my heart skips a beat as he draws a small metallic object from his coat — a needle. He wants to needle me to see if I am still pure?

I gulp.

My mind drifts backward.

Can a Kiss of Gratitude rot me?

"I want a blood sample," he says abruptly. "Just to make sure she carries no diseases."

I freeze.

Not only because I fear that the Kiss of Gratitude tainted me, but because needles have always been my greatest weakness.

"And you couldn't ask me about it first?" My father asks, maddened, hands on his hips like he's trying to tamp down his frustration.

Nicolai ignores him completely and steps toward me, the syringe gleaming beneath the dim light.

"No," he says, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on me, shaking his head. "I don't trust anyone. And I don't want your contagious daughter — just in case she didn't manage to keep her legs closed."