Another cut. Another stroke.
Deeper this time. Too deep. The blade slips against the bone, and the pain is white-hot. So bright it almost burns out everything else. It isn't screaming pain. Screaming requires a voice. This pain is silent. This pain demands obedience. Hands press me down against the stone. Not cruel hands. Not kind. Just hands. Efficient. Practiced. The chanting fills the air like smoke, thick, suffocating, holy.
I am eight. I am a shrine girl. I am nothing more than a vessel.
They don't stop. Not when I twitch. Not when my body jerks. Not even when I pass out. They just wait for me to wake. Then they continue. It takes days. When the rune is finally complete. Red, raw, swollen and screaming. They call me beautiful. They always call me beautiful. I never know how long it takes to heal. Healing just means training. And when I can walk again, it means it's time to move.
New god. New temple. New knife. New place to carve. Over and over and over. Carve. Heal. Smile. Serve. Repeat.
I wake in a cold sweat. The dream fades fast, blood, chanting, bone. The usual. The ceiling above me is silk-draped and softly lit, expensive and tacky in equal measure. He'd come in late last night, jet-lagged and worn down, too tired to do more than press a kiss to my hair before collapsing beside me. We just slept. No performance. No mask. Almost normal.
Beside me now, the man stirs. Not John. No one's ever really named John. Senator Robert Killjoy. Of course. He grunts with sleepy pleasure and rolls toward me, his hand landing on my stomach like a stamp of ownership. But it doesn't linger like usual, it moves. Gentle. Almost affectionate. I force myself to remain still.
"Morning, gorgeous," he mumbles, voice thick with sleep and something that tries to pass for warmth.
I smile before he even opens his eyes. The exact one he likes. Soft. Sweet. Like he's caught me mid-daydream about him.
He blinks, focuses, and smiles back. "I brought you something," he says, propping himself up on one elbow.
He reaches down beside the bed and pulls out a thin parcel, clumsily wrapped in brown paper. He hands it to me like it's sacred.
"I saw this and thought of you," he says, eyes shining.
I unwrap it slowly, deliberately. A book. No, not just a book. My favorite author Callista Wildfire. Her book "The Love of a Lady" First edition. Rare. For a second, my chest aches. Because this, this one, wasn't part of the act. I'd mentioned it once, offhand, not to him but to the empty air between us, years ago. Something I loved. Something real. And he remembered. My fingers tighten on the cover before I can stop them. The smile that spreads across my face isn't practiced, not polished, not the one he's trained himself to crave. It's mine. Startlingly, dangerously mine.
"You remembered," I whisper. Too soft. Too raw.
His whole face lights up, like I've handed him absolution. "Of course I did. You love this author."
The ache sharpens. He doesn't know how much he's right. He never will. So I force it back down. Smooth the edges. Tilt my head just so, soften my mouth the way he likes. Make it the version of Anastasia he wants.
"Yes," I say, cradling the book like it's sacred because that's what he needs to see. "I love this author."
And just like that, the moment passes. The real me slips beneath the surface again, drowned under silk and sweet smiles. He leans in and kisses my shoulder. Soft. Hesitant. Not lustful. Not possessive."I missed you," he says.
I tuck my hair behind my ear, just the way he likes. "It's good to see you again, Bobby. I missed you."
He smiles wider. Like it means everything. He really thinks this is love. He's been coming to me since he was barely more than a boy. For him, this isn't performance. For him, it's devotion. Love.
He doesn't reach for me the way others do, not at first. He just talks. Tells me about his flight. About the way his wife is angry again. About the press. The party. The pressure. He looks exhausted. I listen. Nod. Brush his arm once, gently. The contact makes him close his eyes like he's savoring it.
When he finally moves to touch me, it's slow. Careful. Kind in a way that almost feels real. I give him exactly what he needs. Adoration. Sweetness. Surrender. Every sigh. Every look. Every movement sculpted to draw him out, to coax his pleasure forward. He responds like a man parched, drinking deep, finding comfort in the softness I've tailored just for him. He thinks I'm his peace. For the time he is here, I will be.
I used to have to think about it. The pitch of a gasp, the shape of a moan, the way my fingers curled or my back arched. It used to be work. But now?My body responds before I tell it to. My breath catches on cue. My muscles tighten, tremble, release. There's no conscious performance anymore. Just instinct. The illusion has become the habit. The habit has become the truth.
I hit my peak like it's a ritual. A task checked off. A chore completed beautifully. He believes it. Completely. Watches me with something close to wonder, like what just happened between us meant something more than muscle memory and survival.
When it's over, he doesn't collapse in arrogance. Doesn't bark orders or gloat. He just curls against me, fingers idly tracing the curve of my hip.
"You're the only place that feels real," he whispers.
I don't answer. I can't. Instead, I let him hold me. Let him believe. Let him think he's special. Let him think I'm his. Because as long as he's here, I am. He leaves just before noon. Exactly on time. Kisses my hand. Promises to return next month. His worship, paid in taxpayer gold.
The door shuts behind him. Silence.
I stand, still bare, and walk to the shower. Steam spills through the marble room like a whispered prayer. The water is hot. Almost too hot but I don't flinch. I scrub slowly. Methodically. First my arms. Then my shoulders. Then everywhere else. The soap smells like jasmine. I hate jasmine. It doesn't matter.
Nothing ever does. I wash until my skin turns pink. Until the memory of his mouth fades. Until the ritual of cleansing dulls the feeling of being touched. I am a shrine. A holy vessel. A form of worship. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Wet curls cling to my neck. My eyes are blank. The runes beneath my skin glow faintly. Beautiful. Perfect. Divine. I feel disgusting. The water runs cold before I step out.