Cold iron bites my wrists. I’m spread-eagle on the altar table in the candle-lit crypt beneath the estate, silk blindfold soaked with my tears and someone else’s sweat. The masked guardian—my uncle—stands between my thighs, gloved fingers spreading me open while the coven circles us in black robes, chanting low.
His thumb circles my c**t once, clinical, then he drives two fingers deep, curling hard. My back arches off the stone; the chains rattle. “Count,” he growls behind the silver mask, voice distorted, familiar.
“One,” I choke. He adds a third finger, stretching, scissoring. “Two” The stretch burns; my thighs shake. A fourth finger forces in, knuckles grinding. “Three” I’m sobbing, dripping, the pain twisting into a dark, shameful throb.
He withdraws, replaces fingers with the blunt
