Inayah slept fitfully throughout the night.
Sleep constantly deserted her, playing games to which she constantly succumbed to— it reached for her along the edges and just as her eyelids grew hooded, she would catch brief flashes of a beast in the woods, and that alone shuddered her awake.
She woke three times during the night, panting and gasping for air, glowing with perspiration that matted the front of her gown to her chest.
Her body throbbed with great intensity, oftentimes she whimpered whilst lying on her back, afraid to flatten against her stomach.
When the agony grew far too worse, she carefully rolled onto her side and gazed at the small rectangular window that gave way to the darkness beyond.
It was quiet outside, deathly so, the sky night that was once lit with stars now blank. An endless abyss.
A soft whimper escapes her and realizing that she was far from sleeping, Inayah gingerly pushed off the small cot. Reaching for a small sweater to wear over her gown, she silently padded barefoot out of the room and towards the kitchen.
It was a large and eerie silent manor. Placing her hand against the wall, Inayah blindly found her way around, small fingers curling around something thin and hard.
“Candle,” she whispers, relieved. Beyond the large windows, the wind swirls and howls out into the night, raising vicious goosebumps along her forearms.
Her scalp prickles but she ignores the sense and fumbles with a small matchbox, striking and lighting the candle.
The flame flickers shyly, perhaps doubtful of its own strength, and she cups her palms around it, anxiously waiting for it to gain strength. Warmth spreads across her palms as the orange glow arcs and spreads out across the kitchen.
Next, Inayah fills a small cup with water and drinks from it. Tentatively, she touches the hem of her nightgown and raises it, studying the thin bloody marks that welt across her torso and small breasts.
Her whole body is tender and sore.
I hate him. She thinks with pained anger. I hate him so much. May the gods strike the bastard down.
Inayah had hated a few people in her life; the debt collector and two bullies that constantly shoved her around. However, Salem took the cake. She loathed the man, or creature, whatever he claimed himself to be.
At the same time, she had never feared a mortal as much as she did him. He held power and authority and formed a fine electric mist around him. He was dangerous, the punishments were a constant reminder of his brutality.
What made it worse, perhaps, was that she feared he was holding back when hurting her.
Picking the candle, she begins to make her way down a random hallway, now completely wide awake. Inayah figures she might as well tour the mansion.
Gripping random doorknobs, she gently pushes them open and holds the candle forward, like an offering made to the darkness. Light sweeps over numerous random rooms— neatly kept bedrooms, bathrooms, a library, study room, plain room with nothing but canvas isles and paints. Two rooms were locked.
At the end of the hallway, Inayah stills at the sight of faint light spilling from a partially opened door.
She knows who lies beyond the barrier. Her heart leaps up to her throat, but she swallows. She begins to pivot and return to her bedroom when something stops her—
Music.
Faint violin music.
Staring wide-eyed at the carpet beneath her bare toes, Inayah contemplates the temptation of sneaking in.
In the end, her curiosity wins and she turns softly approaching the door. Her palm pressed against the door, carefully leaning forward and peeking into the room.
The large fireplace burns alive, flames licking confidently at thick logs. Sparks burst and float before sizzling and dying as ashes drop. She sees two empty velvet couches facing the fire.
Pressing forward, Inayah listens to the violin sound. There is something sonder about the music that sets her heart into the deepest of symphonies, deeply harrowing and torrential in the way it encompasses her body.
The tune is less of a melody and more of tortured. Her eyes shut to the sound as she envisions waves, crests that rise high and reach for the sky, caving forward before crashing down on her.
Then she is suffocating, drowning, alone, quiet.
Tortured.
Caught in the sombre melody, Inayah does not realize the tune has stopped. And when she does, it is too late;
“Step forward, Inayah.” Salem’s voice is calm, far too calm for her liking. It catches her off guard and Inayah stares wide-eyed at the door, unknowing of what to do.
Her heart begins to beat thunderously, her mouth grows dry, tongue clinging to the roof of her mouth. She raises a trembling hand and gently pushes the door open.
Her gaze lands on the figure that stands by the window, back facing her, violin hanging limply by the side. She drops her gaze, shoulders caving forward in timid submission.
“I’m sorry—” she begins, voice shaking along with the candle she holds in her trembling hand. “I was—”
“It is late.”
Inayah flinched, staring at her toes intently. “It is.” She admits, wondering if he would punish her again. The thought of it has her stomach clenching nervously. “I’m sorry.” She repeats again for the measure.
Salem turns then, but not completely. He does not regard her once whilst approaching the table where the violin’s case lay open. Carefully, he places the instrument and bow back before shutting it.
He stares at the case, smoothing the cover with the palm of his hand before finally turning to his slave. Her build is ever more so delicate in the thin gown she wears that falls just above her red knees. Her face was lowered slightly, but there was a keen sense of alertness about her.
“Why are you awake.” Salem questions and her head angles upwards, clashing with his sapphire blue eyes, the ominous magnificence of. Storm on the horizon.
She tore her own focus away from them with difficulty, and then she took note of his expression. He was gazing at her in return, his eyes tracing the shape of her with a predatory focus.
A nervous shudder raced up her spine.
He lowered smoothly into a chair. Inayah tore her eyes away once more to sweep the room. It was marked by a sense of stately comfort, dark and sleek. Gold and green accent pieces captured her attention here and there, a stylized map.
And on the wall, prominently situated, his sigil: a green serpent on a field of black.
He was still looking at her like she were a small animal ready to bolt. There was a bowl of gleaming fruit. She looked at this last for a moment overlong, for she had not eaten dinner before she met his watching eyes.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she whispers, trying to steady her nerves, her free hand fumbling with her dress.
She felt utterly exposed.
Salem’s sultry gaze lingers on her face, the fireplace casts a flaming orange glow across half his face, the light dancing embers in his pupils.
He reaches for a wooden box and sets it on the armrest on the large throne-like seat before meeting her gaze whilst patting his lap.
“Come here, little mouse.” He said, with nonchalant grace, indicating his lap. Then his tone hardened, “Sit,” he said.
There was that magnetic pull again, increased threefold by the sense of command in his voice.
She walked forward shakily, pausing just by his feet and staring at his lap then face and lap again. Her mind reels with the possibility of denying him the request, but her eyes flicker to the crop still sprawled above the table.
She wants to ask what he would do, but her tongue grows heavy with anxiety.
Gingerly, Inayah lowers herself onto his lap, then feels a small thrill of terror when his hand smooths against her inner thigh only to halt.
“Sit astride and face me,” Salem whispers.
The effect on her composure reminded her of being on a battlefield. She felt numb in some places and tingling in others.
It wasn’t just the unknown in this circumstance that frightened her. It was him. There was a quality there, that as serene as he seemed on the surface, a ferocity lay buried within. Like magma beneath the water.
Inhaling a shuddering breath, Inayah rises again and struggles to straddle his laps without her dress having to rise but her efforts are futile. The material bunches around her waist, revealing the white underwear beneath.
Her face flames in humiliation, and tried to find her voice, but she didn’t know what to say. Her prospects seemed ominous. She knew enough to believe that this man held her fate in his hand.
He could be mad, or murderous. Or both.
Suddenly, Salem’s hand touches her hip, fingering the material of her dress thoughtfully.
“Take it off.” His voice is a hushed demand.
ns 15.158.61.8da2
