To None But Me

A Blue Eyed Knight

Brigid awoke, head pounding something fierce and cheek stinging as though a swarm of bees had given chase and won. Pressing a hand to the mighty lump near her temple, she used her other arm to push herself up. Nausea followed, but she knew this pain well—knew it was nothing she could not handle. She took steady, even breaths, before peeling open one eye, testing her sight.

She was in that same rose-colored room, with nothing covering her but a thin sheet. A few kind prostitutes swept up the broken vase near the door, silent, eyes tight with worry. Brigid frowned, attempting to remember what had happened. With a startling realization, her free hand darted between her thighs, wondering if that repulsive boy had received what he'd paid for while she had been unconscious.

She sighed in relief once no evidence of that type of assault was found. Anger, then replaced her fear. Fury, more accurately.

Her time in Paris had been nothing but another nightmare. Her devilish late husband's aunt was just as vile, though Brigid had tried to give her the benefit of the doubt, at least for the first few months. The pudgy, ugly woman had taken what little wealth had been left to Brian O'Sullivan's young wife, saying it was payment for room and board. Brigid thought that fair enough, at first, until his aunt continued her extravagant shopping sprees while the rest of Paris clamored for measly portions of bread or soup.

Brigid had always been rather compassionate, down to earth, so to speak, because of her family upbringing. And so, the woman swindled every last pound from Brigid's pocket. But that was the least of the young girl's worries, now.

Everywhere the aunt took Brigid, she would watch with keen eyes as men gawked at her beauty, and her plan began to take shape. It wasn't long before she told Brigid her money had run out, to which Brigid had no argument; abused as she'd been by her husband, retaliation against such a similar foe felt impossible.

The aunt then sold Brigid, against her knowledge and then her pleas, to the most elite of brothels in Paris, promising them a virgin. The owner of the establishment had taken one look at her and saw what he desired—saw what all men desired. The transaction complete, Brigid was damned to a life of revolving scoundrels, the first of which had already attempted to beat her senseless for his sick pleasure.

She knew, now, that some sort of trouble would rain down upon her. She didn't care. If her life was resigned to this place, she was just as happy to die.

"Are you alright, ma cherie?" a kind, quiet voice asked from above. Brigid glanced up, the motion and brightness of the flames flickering above doing nothing to stave her nausea. She nodded, though, for she'd endured worse.

The woman, a bit older than Brigid with stringy blond hair and rouge caked over her pox scars, smiled, but it was pained.

"What will happen?" Brigid asked, cutting to the point. There was no sense in hiding from the truth. The woman frowned before shrugging and taking her leave. Brigid couldn't bring herself to blame the prostitute for her cold demeanor; she had her own worries and didn't need to get mixed up in some new girl's drama.

Brigid stood on shaky legs, swaying and unsteady as she reached for her shift and tugged it back on, wishing she had a full dress to cover herself. With a sigh of resignation, she sat on the lounge and awaited the punishment she was sure would follow.

***

Erik stood aside, keeping his attention focused on the blubbering fool of a boy, hiding his smirk as best he could. The Duke, furious at such an interruption, had slapped young Simon across the face before dragging him to a more private area of the brothel, if such areas did indeed exist. The whore in question, though, had done her own damages to the boy. He sported a gash along his palm from the shards of the vase; she'd allegedly wielded a particularly sharp piece in defense, which impressed Erik all the more, but continued to add layers to the mystery of her actions.