Total pages in book: 210
Estimated words: 200837 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1004(@200wpm)___ 803(@250wpm)___ 669(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 200837 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1004(@200wpm)___ 803(@250wpm)___ 669(@300wpm)
This revelation, that Gemna will not be spared just because she is the last of them, gives me a sense of evil satisfaction and this realization fills me with shame for a moment.
But the anger inside me has been building over the last few days. Ever since someone murdered my father and set this whole fucking thing in motion, I have been living in a controlled state of rage.
And now I fear that my desire for control is waning.
I don’t want to be in control. I want to lose it right now. I want to break things. I want to destroy things. Most of all, that god in the tower. Or even just the tower itself.
I want to bring the whole fucking thing down.
We end up in a common room filled with cream-colored couches, and curved plaster walls with river-stone peeking through in some places. Chandeliers hang from the domed ceiling dotted with skylights that perfectly frame the clear, starry sky above us. There are thick, luxurious rugs on the sandstone floors, and all three corner fireplaces are burning so there is a glow of light flickering across the walls and floor that makes the massive room feel obscenely opulent, but also cozy.
This pisses me off. That this is where they live. Not because it’s a place fit for a princess—Clara deserves the best. All the Maidens do. That’s not what makes me angry.
It’s that it’s a trick at best and an outright lie at worst.
Because the women who live up in this tower—the Tau City Spark Maidens—they aren’t celebrities, or role models, or princesses.
They are sacrifices.
Offerings to a hungry god.
And this lie being told by the serene décor of the community room is, quite honestly, the grossest thing I’ve ever seen.
Mitchell stops in the middle of the community room and turns to look at me. “The Matrons are still coming.” Then he looks at Gemna. “Do you have a private room that locks?”
Gemna nods.
“Let’s go. Lead the way.” And then they are heading further into the space, towards a door.
I turn to Clara, but she’s already heading in another direction, pulling me along behind her. I follow her inside a room and she closes the door, turns a key in the lock, then removes it and places it on a little stone table.
When she faces me again, she breaks, nearly falling to the floor. If I wasn’t here to catch her, she might’ve. But I do catch her. Then I pick her up, cradling her in my arms, and carry her over to the bed. I gently place her on the covers, but she didn’t faint, so she’s not unconscious. She’s grabbing at me with a desperation I’ve never seen before.
Under normal circumstances Clara Birch is a model Spark Maiden. Poised, proper, polite.
But this is the end of her life and she is completely and utterly lost. Babbling, begging. “Please, Finn.” She gets up on her knees, refusing to lie back on the bed, and grabs my shoulders. Her nightgown—a beautiful garment made of the finest cream-colored satin, silk and lace—is hanging off one shoulder, revealing most of her breasts. Her hair is a tousled mess. Tears pour out of her eyes like rivers. Her normally pale cheeks are flushed pink.
And for some reason, I’m turned on by it. By her anguish, by her vulnerability, and by her begging.
“Please, Finn. Do not make me do it! Do not make me! Please!”
I’m sitting next to her, wearing nothing but my own nightclothes—a simple pair of loose linen pants, but barefoot and shirtless—and all I can think about is fucking her right now. Taking every bit of her as mine before I have to hand her over to the god in the tower.
I can’t save her. So I don’t even bother trying to answer her. Instead I grab her nightgown and pull it down over her shoulders, all the way down to her waist, until both of her breasts are exposed. I look at them, licking my lips as I imagine taking her tight, peaked nipples into my mouth. And then I’m doing it. Pushing her back on the bed. Nipping, and sucking until she’s moaning and slipping her fingers into my hair.
There is a loud banging on the door. Yelling from outside as the Matrons demand to be let in.
But we ignore them. I pull back, grip the bodice of her nightgown with both hands, and rip it open. She makes a noise that is something between a moan and a squeal, and instinctively her arms come up to cover herself.
I stand back up and then reach for her arms so I can pry them away from her body.
Then I just stare at her.
We have made love plenty of times. A couple dozen over the years, at least.
But until earlier today, these trysts were carefully planned and executed.