Her own mind, faint and buried somewhere, said no, but the other voices said yes, and that was what came out of her mouth. She followed him up that grand staircase into the darkness waiting above.
He guided her up, a hand on her arm, light and gentle. And yet still it felt horrifying, like she was walking, wide awake, into a nightmare. Just a little farther, Tamhas soothed.
This is nothing, Granddad said. You’ve read enough books to know—girls your age have been doing unpleasant things to secure their prospects for all of time. This is one of those, but so much easier. You don’t have to marry the old bastard, or even spend that much time with him. You can take him any time now.
Just touch him a little, Hamilton urged. The charade is over. Put your hands on him, pretend to be really interested, to keep him from screaming, and then…just take what we need, and break his neck.
Rose gulped. Alistair led her into a darkened doorway and clicked on the light. She blinked back from the intensity of it, then her eyes adjusted it. It was a bedroom, furnished in grand style. A four-poster was the centerpiece of the room, turned down like a maid had just left.
That’s a good lass, Granddad said. You can just follow his lead. He’ll take care of it himself soon enough, if you give him enough time. All you’ll need to do is hold on.
Rose wandered into the bedroom after Alistair, who was unbuttoning his shirt. When it came off, she saw that paunch that extended slightly over his belt, the gnarly trail of hairs that pathed down his belly. His chest was flat, sloping down to his gut. He shed the shirt, letting it fall to the floor, and a vague hint of revulsion ran through Rose even though he was ten feet away.
“Now you take yours off,” he said, quiet, voice dripping with suggestion.
Just go over to him, and give him a kiss, Hamilton said. Touch him. Something. Keep him on the hook, lass.
Rose wobbled over to him, following the command. When she got close, he did it for her, brushing his lips against hers. His breath was fowl, garlicky, and strong, and she nearly gagged but managed to hold it in at the last.
Keep it together, her mam’s voice said. Don’t raise an alarm now, not when you’re so close.
He pawed at her, and she took it for a moment before pulling away. He grinned, looking her over. “You’re nervous, aren’t you? It’s all right.”
She nodded without saying anything, feeling ashen.
“Is this your first time?” he asked, coyly.
She brushed her fingers against her lips, wishing she could wipe away the feeling of what she’d just done. She just nodded, that sick feeling rising in her belly, along with the bile.
“It’s all right,” he said, “it’s not my first time. I can show you the way. We’ll take it nice and easy. Hm?” He awaited her approval, and as he did so, touched her arm.
It was all she could do not to recoil in terror. He had already turned away, busying himself.
Touch him now, and it’ll all be over soon, Granddad said. If you let this drag on…ye just might regret it.
Aye, you’re going to have to go along with what he wants in order to avoid alarm if you don’t seize this moment, Tamhas said. Get on with it.
Alistair turned on the TV, then dropped the remote to the bedside table with a clatter. “A little background noise,” he said with that same smile, and unbuttoned his pants. They slid to the floor and he shrugged out of them, then came back at her again.
I could tell you what to do here, you worthless shite, Miriam Shell said, her own disgust boiling over, but you’d just cock it up.
Finish him, Graham said quietly. There’s no need for all this show, Rose. Just…be done with it if you mean to do it. You don’t need to let him keep backing you into a corner. You’ll have to play along if you don’t, and I know you don’t want that—
Rose turned away from Alistair, freezing in place. Something about what Graham had said, about Miriam’s goads…they got to her. She kicked the straps off her heels, then slipped the dress straps from her shoulders, her head rushing as she did so. That sick feeling in her stomach was replaced by a breathless hunger, a twisted anger let loose, driving her on. That she could feel it when Graham’s own heart dropped—not that he had one anymore, but the feeling was still present—was all the sweeter.
She turned back to Alistair, down to her bra and knickers. He looked her up and down, his eye wandering. “Shall we get into bed, then?” she asked, trying to live up her voice. It still sounded dull to her.
He bought it nonetheless, and lifted the covers, as if opening a door for her. She slid in and moved over to halfway across the bed, pulse racing. The TV was going quietly in the background, a rerun of some show playing like muzak in a shop.
Alistair slipped out of his own briefs and slid into the bed, letting out a hearty sigh as he let the covers drop after him. She’d seen, because he’d shown off, briefly, before sliding in, as though the mere sight was something that would fascinate her. It had the opposite effect; she was vaguely repulsed, though she kept a lid on it.
“Now then,” he said, staring at the space of inches between them. She was on her side, facing him, and he was opposite, facing her. “What shall we do?”
Rose swallowed hard.
Go on, Granddad said.
Get it over with, Tamhas said.
Ye’ve got him now, Hamilton said.
Finish this, worthless girl, her mam said.
And somewhere, in the back of her head, a quiet whisper from Graham: You don’t have to do this.
Rose leaned forward and kissed him, closing her eyes and pressing her lips to his. He ran his hands over her, fumbling at her bra, drawing her close, pulling her like he was a big strong bear and she was a weak little thing. He touched her, put his hands on her, and she did the same.
He released her bra and she shrugged out of it, heart beating, but somehow it didn’t matter. She was beyond fear now, into spite, into fury, and she didn’t even care about the man who had his hands on her body in ways no one ever had. He was an empty vessel to her, a dagger to stab at the ones she very nearly hated.
She kissed him again, and again, and started to feel the burn on her lips, on her fingers, in the places where he touched her. He gasped, clearly feeling it too, and she pushed up and straddled him, putting her bare palms on his hairy, flat chest.
She could feel the burning now, and Alistair McKinney’s mouth was wide. It was a smile, of sorts, though crossed with pain, too, as it started to take over. “Hush now,” she said, and he did, as his eyes rolled up and the feeling started to take over.
Something broke in on Rose as she started to let it loose, to let that—that demon feeling take her over. She was atop him, rubbing against him through her panties, and her skin was afire. She didn’t care that she didn’t like him; in fact felt it all the richer. She was alive with pleasure, and that it was this man—this disgusting, old, sloughing-skin man—it was all the better. She hated him, though she barely knew him, hated what he represented, the desire to use her like others had used her. He would have come to hate her after he’d come anyway, probably thrown a few pounds at her to get her to leave once his animal needs had been sated.
It was like all these arseholes in her head. They hated her for what she was until they needed her, and now—now they just hated her again, and all the more because they were trapped inside.
Rose, what are you— her granddad said.
The news broke through her fog of pleasure, and she turned her head.
“The American president announced the existence of a race of humans with superpowers—”
What?
She refocused her attention on the television and away from Alistair McKinney, who was gasping.
“…an employee named Sienna Nealon managed the agency response to the crisis…”
That name.
She knew that name.
Weissman had said it that night—that, that horrible night when—