Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 59432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
“Oh, my,” Oakman stepped back and gave an over-the-top up and down look. “We’ve got some stiff competition, if you folks know what I mean!”
Hoots and whistles, mixed with laughter, echoed around the hall.
“We’re next.” Vinemont’s voice was in my ear, each syllable laced with rigid determination. Any hint of the heat he’d shown me outside was gone. He released my waist and took my hand. His palms were damp, the only indication that he was at all nervous.
Brianne and Red retreated from the platform.
“Now, last but never least, the Vinemonts. Counsellor Sinclair, show us your wares!”
He strode forward, confidence in every movement, and pulled me behind him. The tree loomed ahead, the shackles glinting in the spotlight. Foreboding rose inside me and blotted out my voice, my heart, and my soul. I followed. There was nowhere else to go.
We took the stairs one at a time, each step adding a weight to my shoulders, a rock to my stomach. Finally, we stood next to Oakman. Everything beyond the glittering stage was a dark blur. The spotlight was a blinding sun, focused on me as if by a cruel child with a magnifying glass.
“Her name is Stella, not that it matters.” Vinemont was cold, his words like frost in my mind.
He untied my mask and yanked it from my face. Then he ripped the cloak from me, my skin tingling from the sudden onslaught of open air. A collective gasp rose up from the crowd, followed by thunderous applause.
“Oh my, my. Now, Sinclair, you know I’ve always had a thing for redheads. And this is one is too choice to pass up.”
“I’ll tell you what, Cal, when I’m Sovereign, I’ll send you a new redhead each week,” Vinemont said to raucous laughter from the crowd below.
“I like the confidence. I’ve got my eye on this one, ladies and gents. Now, let’s get this party started right. Branding time!”
The orchestra started back up and Vinemont pulled me down from the platform. No longer hidden by the ornate mask or my cloak, I felt naked. The ghouls stared and leered as I walked past, Vinemont dragging me along through the pressing bodies.
Wait, branding time?
He was leading me toward the tattooed goblin again. The male Acquisition, Gavin, was already shirtless and lying on his stomach, one of the other artists inking him in front of the masked onlookers.
“Bigger,” Bob directed.
The artist nodded and continued free-handing the outline of an eagle on Gavin’s shoulder blade.
The orchestra changed to a waltz, and many ballgoers paired off to dance, skirts swirling, their laughter melding with the music.
Red led his Acquisition, Brianne, over to one of the tables and shoved her down onto her back. He pulled the strap of her dark purple dress down so her left breast was exposed. “Over her heart. My name.”
Her eyes were squeezed shut, tension written along her vibrating body. I took an unsteady step toward Red, prepared to do my best to knee him in the balls. Before I got the chance, Vinemont’s iron grip encircled my upper arm and pushed me up onto the platform in the same rough fashion. He dropped me onto the table in front of the goblin and pushed me down until I lay prone.
The buzzing noise of the two other tattoo guns, mixed with poor Brianne’s whimpers, reached my ears over the waves of music.
“What’s it gonna be, Sin?”
The goblin knew Vinemont?
“The traditional V,” Vinemont replied.
“Where?”
“Here.” Vinemont’s hand swiped the hair off my nape and let it hang down beside me in a curling cascade. He moved the emerald necklace up and out of the way. Then his cold finger traced a V on the back of my neck.
“Can do.”
I had never gotten a tattoo. I’d thought about it plenty of times, but never had the conviction to get anything in particular. I used my body to make art. I didn’t intend to be the art. And now, I was getting a tattoo forced on me. Nothing was my choice anymore. I’d signed it away.
For the millionth time since this ordeal started, I pictured my father. He was sitting by the fire in his favorite chair—safe, warm, no doubt sad, but alive. I would do what I had to do. I would cover my entire body in ink if it would save him.
Despite knowing this sacrifice was worth it, I wanted to go numb, to stop experiencing the horror of what was happening. I couldn’t. I felt the cold table beneath me, felt the eyes of the masked people watching me as I was “branded,” and I felt Vinemont standing next to me, no doubt enjoying my degradation moment by moment.
The goblin leaned down and whispered in my ear. “It’s going to hurt, but I’ll be as nice as I can.”
“Thanks.” Did I just thank my torturer?