The Beast of the Barrens

by Val Saintcrowe

  Outwardly, she was her father’s favorite, his youngest, most beautiful daughter, upon which he doted.

  Inwardly, she was despised.

  She had never seen Diago after that. She never went anywhere without the watchful eye of her father, so it was hardly surprising.

  But she still loved Diago.

  She thought she would always love him, that she would go to her grave with her love for Diago etched deeply into her soul. He might have been her enemy, but he was also her soul mate.

  * * *

  Marta Russi claimed she would come back to see to Ziafiata, but midday came and went and there was no sign of the tavern wench. It was not until far later in the evening, when Ziafiata’s stomach was growling, that Marta returned.

  “You’re to dine with the master in his private rooms tonight,” said Marta, as if Ziafiata would be impressed by such a thing.

  Ziafiata was not impressed, and she did not wish to dine with Chevolere. If she had been given something to eat a few hours before, she might have put up some kind of fight, but she was very hungry, and she decided that she would endure the meal if it meant she could get something into her stomach.

  She would need her strength, after all, if she planned to escape that night after the tavern closed.

  So, she allowed Marta to help her dress in one of her best frocks, a red dress that dipped low in the front and had wide, flowing sleeves with lace ruffles. Then she allowed Marta to bind her hair in a knot on her head, and she followed Marta to the master’s rooms.

  There, a table had been set out, two plates already laden with meat and potatoes and greens.

  Chevolere was on the other side of the room at a sideboard, pouring wine. He turned when she entered, and he looked her over with his pale gray eyes. He did not smile or frown.

  She pushed past Marta and went to sit down at one of the plates. Without waiting for anything, she picked up a fork and speared a small potato. She shoved it into her mouth and chewed.

  “Hungry?” said Chevolere, setting a goblet of wine in front of her. He turned to Marta. “That’ll be all.”

  “Sir,” said Marta, who curtsied, her expression wide with horror, probably because Ziafiata had been so rude as to begin eating before the master. She backed out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

  Ziafiata was thirsty, but she didn’t dare drink the wine. She must have her wits about her, and it looked strong.

  Chevolere sat down at the other end of the table, placing his wine glass deliberately next to his plate. He sat down.

  She began attacking her meat with the knife she’d been given, which was truly rather dull for the task, but the meat was not an expensive cut, and had been slowly cooked for so long that it was practically falling apart. It was good, she supposed, mostly because of the rich sauce it had been cooked in. She resolved to eat it too quickly to taste it. She would take pleasure in nothing in this place, and she would only eat for her own survival.

  Chevolere watched her, expressionless. He did not eat anything himself.

  She swallowed the bite she had been chewing. “If you had fed me a midday meal, as any civilized man would have done, perhaps I would not be so famished.” She didn’t know why she was explaining herself. She did not owe this man any explanation at all.

  “My apologies,” said Chevolere. “I was not aware that you were not fed today.”

  “You didn’t do it on purpose?” She cut a potato with her fork. “It’s not the beginning of your intent to make me change my mind about betraying Diago?”

  “Have you changed your mind?”

  “No.”

  “I did not plan to starve the information out of you, no.”

  She took another bite of food and chewed furiously.

  He picked up his glass of wine and took a thoughtful drink. “Starvation takes a rather long time. I’m impatient. Besides, starvation provides very little gratification to me.”

  Her stomach lurched. She swallowed her food and set down her utensils. Suddenly, she wasn’t feeling very hungry. He was impatient?

  “I suppose we’ll start tonight, then,” said Chevolere.

  “Start what?” she demanded.

  “The extraction,” said Chevolere. He set down his wine and fixed her with a stare. His gaze dipped down to her exposed skin. The dress was cut so low as to expose the cleavage of her breasts. He ogled that pointedly.

  She picked up her napkin and put it to her chest.

  He chuckled, low in his throat.

  She found herself taking a drink of the wine. Oh, why had she done that? She set the glass down immediately. What was it that he would do to her?

  She was no virgin, so she had knowledge of what men wanted from women, but whatever it was that Chevolere wanted was something beyond her knowledge, because it was so base and unnatural. She had no notion of what it might be, and she found that when she tried to imagine it, she could not. Though she was not chaste, she was not experienced either, and she simply had no inkling of what it all entailed.

  But whatever it was to be, the thought of it made a tight knot form in the pit of her stomach. She gazed down at her plate and knew she would eat nothing else.

  “We could avoid it, of course,” said Chevolere gently. “Tell me where to find the key.”

  “No,” she said immediately.

  “As you wish, then, Ziafiata.” He picked up his fork and took a small bite of his food. He chewed, regarding her.

  She clenched her hands into fists.

  * * *

  After dinner, Chevolere escorted her back to her room. He deposited her within the doorway and told her to make herself ready for him, something hard glittering in his eyes, something that made her entire body feel too tight and tense.

  He shut the door and she was alone.

  Make herself ready for him? What did that mean?

  She wouldn’t do a thing to be ready for him, not a thing.

  In fact, she would leave now.

  True, the tavern was not closed, but she could not stay here and allow herself to be molested by this awful man. She turned the doorknob and threw herself into the hallway.

  She started down the rickety stairs, and then she stopped.

  No, she couldn’t.

  She would come down the stairs right next to the stage, and everyone would see her. There was no way she could simply run out the door. Someone would stop her. And then, it would be obvious that her room was unlocked and she would not have another chance, because Chevolere would lock her inside from then on.

  No, she would simply have to endure this, whatever Chevolere intended to do to her, and then—after it was over—she could escape later in the night.

  Once free, she would go to Diago, and he would take care of her. Diago loved her. True, she would be ruined by Chevolere, but perhaps that was better, because she would no longer be marriageable material. She didn’t need to marry Diago. She could be his mistress. It wouldn’t matter as long as they were together. She didn’t care about respectability. It was a lie, anyway. Her family wasn’t respectable.

  She cast one longing look down the stairs and then she slowly forced herself back into her room.

  She shut the door behind herself and she began to pace, wrapping her arms around her midsection and trying to convince herself that it could not be so bad as all of that.

  Whatever she’d done with Diago hadn’t been especially pleasant, though she understood that men tended to take more pleasure in the enterprise than women. It had been a bit painful and a bit invasive, and she hadn’t much liked the way he’d grunted over her or how sweaty he’d gotten.

  But before, the kissing and caressing, that had been nice, and she had liked being folded into Diago’s arms, his bare skin against hers.

  Maybe it wouldn’t be so much worse with Chevolere after all, even though he’d said that pain would only be the beginning. She thought she was likely fooling herself, but she paced and repeated it silently, repeated to herself that it
wouldn’t be so much worse, that she could bear it.

  Then the door opened.

  She stopped pacing.

  Chevolere stood in the doorway. “You are still dressed.”

  “You didn’t tell me to undress,” she said.

  “I said to make yourself ready for me.”

  “Well, how was I suppose to know that meant to remove my clothing?”

  “Take it off now.”

  She shook her head.

  “Because the door is open?” He stepped inside and shut the door.

  “Because I don’t wish to do anything to make things easier for you.”

  He nodded at this. “Yes, of course. Well, your rebellion will only make things go that much worse for you.”

  She took a step backwards.

  He started for her.

  She fled, going to the corner of the room, putting her back into it, holding out her hands to keep him back.

  But he was there, gripping both of her wrists with one of his large hands and wrenching them up over her head.

  She struggled.

  He pressed his body into hers, and he was large and strong, and her heart went wildly out of rhythm. His other hand went to the bodice of her dress, and she found she couldn’t breathe. She fought to get air. She was immersed in terror.

  “There’s a way to make this stop, Ziafiata,” he whispered in her ear.

  “No,” she breathed. “No, I won’t.”

  He tugged on the front of her bodice and the fabric of her dress ripped.

  She flinched from him, feeling air between her breasts.

  He let go of her wrists.

  She opened her eyes.

  He wasn’t looking at her. He had taken a step back, and he had averted his gaze.

  She leaped on him, pummeling him with her fists, her breath coming in frenzied gasps.

  He seized both of her wrists again, propelling them backward into the corner again.

  She struggled against him, spitting in his face, bringing up her knee, aiming for his crotch.

  He blocked that with his thigh, forcing his own leg between hers.

  That was horrifying, and she screamed.

  He held her there, and he was out of breath, too.

  They panted, both of them, and he was searching her expression with his own, though what he sought there she did not know.

  “Blazes,” he gasped.

  She had a strange thought now, that he was unprepared for her struggling, that he was shocked by it. He can’t have thought I would welcome this! she thought in disbelief. Perhaps he was too used to his whore, or perhaps the other women he’d molested had been compliant because he’d paid them. Perhaps he had simply not thought this through, and if she struggled, she could make it unpleasant for him, unpleasant enough that he might give up.

  She bucked against his chest, gritting her teeth.

  He sucked in a hissing breath, as if her movement had pleased him.

  That hadn’t been her intention. Her struggling had also somehow made her stays go askew. She tried to wriggle them back into place, but this only seemed to make them fall down further. Her ripped bodice fell away, exposing one of her breasts.

  Chevolere’s gaze seemed to get snagged on her nakedness. He gaped at her, as if he’d never seen a naked breast before, and his breath went ragged. His grip went loose at her hands.

  She yanked one hand free and went for his eyes. She dug her nails into the skin around the eye-holes of his mask.

  He snatched her hand away, grimacing, and he pressed her more firmly into the wall.

  Now, both of her breasts were visible. Her stays were hopelessly low, nearly around her waist. She trembled with rage, and Chevolere eagerly drank in her quivering breasts. This time, he was not distracted enough to loosen his grip, however.

  She cringed from him, shutting her eyes, as if shutting her eyes could shut away the reality of what was happening to her, but it couldn’t.

  She felt Chevolere’s breath on her neck, and her eyes snapped open.

  But he only put his mouth close to her ear and whispered, “You’re quite lovely, Ziafiata.”

  She shuddered.

  “It would be a shame to damage you,” he breathed.

  She convulsed.

  “The key.” His voice was more substantial now. There was iron in it.

  “No.” Her voice, however, was thin and quavering.

  Abruptly, he let go of her, taking several steps back.

  She should have gone for him, leapt on him and raked her nails over his cheek, but—shamefully—she covered herself instead. She wrapped the shreds of her dress around herself and cowered against the wall. She managed to stop short only of whimpering.

  “Perhaps you need some more time to think about it,” said Chevolore. He pulled a handkerchief out and dabbed at a spot below his eye. It came back red. “When I next come to you, I will see to it that you cannot draw blood.”

  She felt a good bit of satisfaction at having hurt him. She bared her teeth at him.

  “You are fierce, too,” he murmured. “You’re not what I expected.” He swallowed, and she could have almost sworn there was something regretful in his posture…

  But then it was gone, his cape swirling behind him as he strode from the room.

  And when he shut the door behind himself, she heard the most horrible sound possible.

  The lock being engaged.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ziafiata stared at the door for several moments, unable to believe what she’d heard.

  Finally, she managed to cross the room and try the knob.

  No!

  Oh, she had been free. She had been standing on the steps, and she’d come back into this room and shut herself back inside and then that monster had come to her and ripped her clothes and looked at her and terrorized her and—

  An agonized sob was rising in her chest, threatening to burst over her like a fountain.

  She pushed it back down.

  No, she could not cry. He might hear her, though how he could with that music going on downstairs she did not know. Still, she could not cry. Crying would mean she was breaking, and she would not break.

  He didn’t even touch me, she said to herself.

  Well, he had touched her. She wrung out her wrists from where he had encircled them with his thick, strong hands.

  But he hadn’t touched her anywhere else. He’d only looked. And there had been no real pain, despite what he’d promised her. His grip on her wrists had been firm and he’d been forceful with her, but she wasn’t…

  Well, anyway.

  It didn’t matter.

  She was trapped here now, and she had lost her one chance to get free.

  She stayed at the door, rattling the knob, for far too long.

  Then she took off the shreds of her ripped clothes and stood in front of her wardrobe in her shift, trying to decide if she should dress herself again. She could give up and slip between the sheets of the bed in her shift, but what if Chevolere came back? Then she would only have this flimsy piece of fabric between him and her naked skin, and… no.

  She got dressed again, putting on a separate set of stays, one that laced up the front, and she arranged them higher, lacing them tightly, mashing her breasts against her chest as if she could flatten them entirely. Then another dress over top of it all.

  She went to the bed and lay on top of the blankets, staring at the ceiling.

  What would she do?

  Perhaps she could lie to Chevolere, tell him where the key was, but give him the wrong location. Maybe he would be so pleased that he would leave her in an unlocked room and she could escape then.

  Of course, if he didn’t, and she was locked in to wait for the result, he would likely come back to her and hurt her very, very badly in his anger.

  No, she would only do that as a last resort, if whatever Chevolere did to her became too horrid to bear.

  Perhaps she would get lucky, and he’d leave the door unlocked
again, or perhaps the tavern wench, the one who was supposed to be seeing to her, perhaps she would be careless.

  The next morning, when Marta Russi appeared with Ziafiata’s breakfast, she was round-eyed, looking Ziafiata over warily.

  “He didn’t leave any marks, then,” said Marta.

  Ziafiata stretched. She wasn’t sure when she had fallen asleep, but she had slept fitfully, and it was dreadful to have slept in one’s stays. She wanted to take them off, but they were now her armor, and she would not remove them for anything at all. “Is that what he does? I would think if he left marks on Madame Vadima, it would be talked about.”

  “I assume he does it to her in places where no one can see,” said Marta. “Is that what he did to you?”

  “He didn’t do anything to me.”

  Marta scoffed.

  “He ripped my dress,” said Ziafiata, gesturing to where it lay in the corner. “But I think he is trying to frighten me first, make me wretched with dread for what is to happen.”

  Marta nodded slowly. “That seems like something he’d do.”

  “Do you enjoy working for the Beast of the Barrens?”

  “He’s not a terrible employer,” said Marta, setting down the tray of food she’d brought on the floor and going to examine the dress. She held it up, looking at the rip. “It’s mostly along the seam. I think it can be repaired. I’m not good with sewing, but maybe Bellia can. She works in the kitchens.”

  “I never want to wear that dress again,” said Ziafiata. She was bending at the waist to look at the tray, which contained griddle cakes and sausages along with some grapes. She did not think she could comfortably sit on the floor with her stays laced so tightly. Grimacing, she picked up the tray and took it to her bed.

  “He is always good to us,” said Marta. “He pays on time. His wages are fair. I think he is only ruthless with men who cross him.”

  Zifiata let out a low, bitter laugh.

  “Oh, and women, of course,” said Marta, coming across the room with the dress held to her chest. “That, too. So, he didn’t do anything to you at all?”