Clipped

Chapter 5.

​The threshold of the brothel was a jagged line between the hell Rhiannon knew and a void she couldn’t fathom. As her bare feet touched the damp, cold cobblestones of the street, the world suddenly became too vast. The sky wasn't a sliced ribbon of silver anymore; it was an endless, obsidian sea that threatened to swallow her whole. The wind, untainted by the scent of lilies and rot, rushed into her lungs with a sharpness that felt like swallowing glass.

​Rhiannon’s knees buckled. Her breath hitched, then trapped itself in her throat, a frantic bird beating against her ribs.

​"Rhiannon?" Fenris’s voice was a low rumble, but it sounded miles away, drowned out by the roar of blood in her ears.

​She collapsed onto the stones, her small, malnourished frame trembling so violently that the silk of her nightdress hissed against her skin. She clawed at her throat, her dark green eyes blown wide, searching the darkness for the familiar bars, the heavy drapes- anything that defined the limits of her existence.

​"Too much," she gasped, the words barely a puff of air. "It’s... too much. I can't... I can't breathe."

​Fenris was moving before she could hit the ground, his large, warm hands hovering inches from her shoulders, hesitating. He seemed to realize that any sudden touch might shatter the little that was left of her.

​"Slow down," he commanded softly, his voice grounding and steady. "Look at me, Rhiannon. Not the sky. Not the street. Just me. You’re hyperventilating. Match my breath."

​He exaggerated his own deep, steady inhales. Rhiannon’s gaze snapped to his face. In the moonlight, the gold in his eyes was molten, a flicker of heat in the cold night. She focused on the pulse in his neck, the solid rhythm of it. Slowly, the world stopped spinning. The air began to settle in her lungs, though it still felt foreign- heavy with the scent of pine and distant rain.

​"Better?" he asked, his brow furrowed in a way that looked like pain.

​Rhiannon didn't answer. Instead, she pushed herself up, her movements jerky and defensive. She pulled her arms tight across her chest, tucking her blue hair around her like a protective sheild. The terror hadn't left; it had simply curdled into a sharp, bitter defiance.

​"Where is the carriage?" she demanded, her voice rasping. "If we are going, let us go. The longer we stand here, the more the Master charges for 'out-of-house' time."

​"There is no 'time,' Rhiannon," Fenris said, standing up. He loomed over her, a mountain of a man, yet he kept a respectful distance. "The carriage is just around the corner. But you need to understand- there is no meter running. Gorgon has no claim on you."

​Rhiannon let out a sharp, jagged laugh. "I’ve heard that before. Lord Vex told me I was 'free' to enjoy his gardens, right before he chained me to the fountain. So, tell me, Wolf. What are my duties in your house? Do you want me in silk or lace? Do I sit at your feet during dinner, or do you prefer me kept in the cellar until you have a 'need' for me?"

​Fenris recoiled as if she’d splashed him with acid. His jaw ticked, a muscle jumping in his cheek. "I don't have a cellar for people, Rhiannon. And I don't care what you wear."

​"Liar," she spat, her eyes flashing with a spark of the old fairy fire, dark and cold. "Everyone wants something. You paid three bags of Northern gold. I know the value of that metal. No one spends a kingdom’s ransom on a broken fairy just to watch it sit on a branch. Are you a collector of 'clipped' things? Is that your vice?"

​Fenris stepped toward her, his shadow swallowing her whole, but he stopped when she flinched. He looked down at his boots, taking a long, controlled breath. "I am not a collector. And I don't want a toy."

​"Then what?" she asked, her voice going up a pitch; the sound echoing off the silent, shuttered buildings. "What do I do? If I don't please you, will you sell me back? Or will you just kill me when you realize I don't smile? Tell me my duties! I need to know the rules of this cage!"

​Fenris’s hands balled into fists, but not in a way that suggested violence toward her. He looked upward, as if searching the moon for patience he didn't possess. When he looked back at her, his blue-gold eyes were soft, almost pleading.

​"The rules," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "are that you eat three meals a day. You sleep in a bed with a lock on the inside of the door. You walk in the woods if you want to, or you stay in your room if you don't. Your only 'duty' is to try and remember who you were before you were clipped."

​Rhiannon stared at him, her lips parted in a silent 'O'. Her mind raced, trying to find the trap. It had to be there. Perhaps he was a sadist who enjoyed the hunt? Perhaps he wanted her to run so he could chase her?

​"A lock on the inside?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

​"On the inside," he confirmed. "And I stay on the outside. Always. Unless you invite me in."

​"I don't believe you," she said, though the venom had left her voice, replaced by a hollow, aching confusion. "Nobody is that kind. Not to someone like me. I’m a noble fairy with no wings, no wand, and ten years of... of dirt on my soul."

​"The dirt isn't yours," Fenris said firmly. He reached out, and this time, he didn't hesitate. He gently took her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. His skin was so hot it felt like a brand, but it wasn't the cold, invasive touch of Gorgon. It was a hearth-fire. "The gold was a price for your silence, Rhiannon. A price to make Gorgon let go. It wasn't a purchase of your spirit."

​He began to lead her toward the waiting carriage- a sturdy, black-lacquered thing pulled by two massive, dark horses.

​"We have a long drive," Fenris said as he opened the door for her. "My pack's territory is deep in the mountains. It’s quiet there. The trees... they’re different from the Whispering Woods. They don't talk as much, but they listen."

​Rhiannon climbed into the carriage, the plush velvet seats feeling like a mockery of the luxury she had lived in. She huddled into the far corner, as far away from the door as possible.

​"Fenris?" she asked as he prepared to shut the door.

​"Yes?"

​"If I... if I can't find her," she whispered, looking down at her scarred, empty palms. "If the little fairy from the forest is truly dead... what will you do with me then?"

​Fenris paused, his hand on the carriage door. He looked at her- really looked at her, seeing the midnight hair, the dark green eyes, and the sheer, terrifying strength it took for her to still be breathing.

​"Then I will get to know the woman who took her place," he said simply.

​The door clicked shut, the sound final and heavy. As the carriage began to roll, the wheels rattling over the cobblestones, Rhiannon leaned her head against the window. She watched the brothel fade into the darkness, a glimmering tomb of silk and sin. She was eighteen, she was malnourished, and she was terrified- but for the first time in ten years, the air she breathed belonged to no one but herself.