Possession
1151 Words
As soon as the ordeal ended, I retreated. I didn't wait for permission. I dragged myself back to the Master Suite, my breath hitching as I finally closed the door behind me.
I thought I was safe. I thought the walls would finally hold the world back.
I was wrong.
The door slammed open minutes later. August walked in, his jacket off, his sleeves rolled up, and his face twisted into something primal and terrifying.
"You think you’re clever, don't you?" he hissed, stalking toward me.
I backed away. "August, I didn't do anything. I didn't ask Grandpa to stay—"
"Don't lie to me!" he roared, grabbing me by the shoulders and shoving me back against the bedpost.
"You played the victim perfectly. You sat there with your pathetic trembling smiles, making my mother look like a villain and me look like a monster. Is that the plan? Win over the old man so you can have a permanent seat at the manor?"
"No! August, please, you're hurting me..."
"I haven't even started hurting you," he growled. His eyes were dark. He reached out, his hand gripping the high collar of my purple gown.
"What are you hiding under here? Why wouldn't you change into the dress Grandpa bought? Were you trying to look like a martyr? Let's see what you’re so desperate to keep covered."
"August, no! Stop!" I screamed, clutching at his wrists, but he was a force of nature fueled by years of hatred.
With one violent, downward jerk, the material groaned and gave way. The fabric tore from my neck to my waist, the sound of it echoed in the silent room.
The air hit my skin, and then, the silence changed.
August’s breath hitched. He didn't pull away but he stopped moving entirely. He stood there, staring at my back and shoulders, where the high collar had hidden the truth.
Deep scars crisscrossed my pale skin. Some were turning yellow; others were still raw and red where the ruler had broken the flesh.
The marks from his own handprints on my neck were stark against the violence of the rest.
I stood there, exposed and trembling, my head bowed as hot tears spilled onto the ruined dress.
I felt like a piece of meat that had been tenderized for the slaughter.
August took a step back. The rage in his eyes didn't turn to pity.
"Disgusting," he whispered.
He didn't ask who did it. He turned on his heel and walked out, slamming the door.
I collapsed onto the floor, clutching my dress to my chest. I sobbed until my throat hurt, certain that he was gone for the night, probably to find a drink to wash away the disgusting sight of my broken body.
But an hour later, the door opened again. He didn't look at me as he walked toward the bed.
He pulled a small tube from his pocket and threw it at me. It hit the carpet near my knees with a dull thud.
"Apply that," he said.
"I won't have you walking around my family looking like a common street dog. Save me from the embarrassment of people thinking I married a beggar who can't even keep her skin clear."
I looked at the tube, then up at him, my eyes blurred by tears. "An embarrassment?"
He picked up his phone and stepped out onto the balcony. I heard him barking orders at Fanel.
"Find a dress. Something with a high neck, long sleeves. A cover-up. And get it here now."
While I sat in the dim light of the bedroom, rubbing the cooling cream into my burning skin, August was standing in the hallway downstairs.
His jaw was tight, his mind replaying the image of those purple scars.
"Fanel," August said into the phone.
"Investigate. Now. I want to know every hand that touched her while I was away. I want to know who decided they had the authority to mark what belongs to me."
By the afternoon, Fanel returned to the Old Manor, meeting August in the private study.
"It was Martha, sir," Fanel reported, his head bowed.
"And the two junior maids, Sarah and Elena. They claim they were teaching her the rules under your general authority to keep her in line."
August stared out the window. Martha was the one who had kept the house running after the accident.
He wouldn't torture her but his eyes turned predatory as he thought of the others.
"Martha is old. She forgot her place," August said softly, which was more terrifying than a scream.
"But the other two... they are young. They have plenty of energy to spare."
"Sir?"
"Lock them in the cellar at the manor. How dare they lay a finger on her? No matter what dispute exists between Spring and me, she is the mistress of that house. Beating her is a slap in my face. It is an insult to my name."
"I understand, sir."
"Teach them a lesson, Fanel. Make sure they understand that only I have the right to break her."
Back at the Harrington manor, the cellar doors groaned shut. Sarah and Elena, the girls who had laughed while Spring bled, were now the ones begging for mercy.
The lessons they had given were returned to them tenfold. Their screams echoed through the cold stones of the basement but no one came to help.
In August’s world, loyalty was the only currency, and they had spent it all on a gamble they lost.
When Martha found out, she didn't rush to save them. She stood at the top of the cellar stairs hearing the muffled cries of her favorites while she shivered.
She realized then that August’s hatred for Spring didn't mean he would tolerate others hurting her.
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The next day, the car pulled back up to our manor.
I was exhausted. As I stepped through the front doors, I froze.
Martha was standing in the foyer. But she wasn't looming over me with a ruler. Her eyes were cast down, her shoulders hunched as if she were trying to make herself invisible.
"Welcome back, Madam," she said, her voice cracking.
I blinked, stunned by the change in tone. Then I looked behind her. Sarah and Elena were scrubbing the floors.
I could see the thick bandages peeking out from under their sleeves, and dark marks mottled their skin. They didn't look up.
They looked like they were terrified to even breathe the same air as me.
I looked at Martha, then at the girls, and finally at August as he walked past me into his study without a word.
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- Writer
