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 her down against the stone. Not cruel hands. Not kind. Just hands. Efficient. Practiced. Chanting fills the air like smoke—thick, suffocating, holy.
She is eight.
She is a shrine girl.
She is nothing more than a vessel.
The priests don't stop. Not when she twitches. Not when her body jerks. Not even when she passes out.
They just wait for her to wake. Then they continue.
It takes days.
And when the rune is finally complete—red, raw, swollen and screaming—they call her beautiful.
They always call her beautiful.
She doesn't know how long it takes to heal. Healing means training. And when she 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.
Anastasia woke in a cold sweat.
The dream faded fast—blood, chanting, bone. The usual.
The ceiling above her was silk-draped and softly lit, expensive and tacky in equal measure. Beside her, a man stirred.
Not John.
No one's ever really named John.
Senator Robert Killjoy.Of course.
He grunted with sleepy pleasure and rolled toward her, his hand landing on her stomach like a stamp of ownership. But it didn't linger like usual—it moved. Gentle. Almost affectionate.
She forced herself to remain still.
"Morning, gorgeous," he mumbled, voice thick with sleep and something that tried to pass for warmth.
She smiled before he even opened his eyes—the exact one he liked. Soft. Sweet. Like he'd caught her mid-daydream about him.
He blinked, focused, and smiled back.
"I brought you something," he said, propping himself up on one elbow.
She already knew what it was. He always brought something.
He reached down beside the bed and pulled out a thin parcel, clumsily wrapped in brown paper. He handed it to her like it was sacred.
"I saw this and thought of you," he added, eyes shining.
She unwrapped it slowly, deliberately. A book. First edition. Rare. She'd mentioned it once, years ago.
He remembered.
Of course he did.
She looked up and smiled again—just a little brighter. That's what he wanted. "You remembered," she said softly.
His face lit up. "Of course I did. You love this author."
She nodded, cradling the book like it meant something.
Play the part. Always play the part.
He leaned in and kissed her shoulder. Soft. Hesitant. Not lustful. Not possessive.
"I missed you," he said.
She tucked her hair behind her ear, just the way he liked. "It's good to see you again, Bobby. I missed you."
He smiled wider.
Like it meant everything.
He really thinks this is love.
He didn't reach for her the way others did—not at first. He just talked. Told her about his flight. About the way his wife was angry again. About the press. The party. The pressure.
He looked exhausted.
She listened. Nodded. Brushed his arm once, gently. The contact made him close his eyes like he was savoring it.
When he finally moved to touch her, it was slow. Worshipful.
And she gave him exactly what he needed.Adoration. Sweetness. Surrender.
Every sigh. Every look. Every movement sculpted to make him feel chosen.
He kissed her like a man starved for genuine connection.
He thinks I'm his peace.
She used to have to think about it—the pitch of a gasp, the shape of a moan, the way her fingers curled or her back arched. It used to be work.
But now?
Her body responds before she tells it to. Her breath catches on cue. Her muscles tighten, tremble, release. There's no conscious performance anymore.
Just instinct.
The illusion has become the habit. The habit has become the truth.
She hits her peak like it's a ritual.A task checked off.A chore completed beautifully.
And he believes it. Completely. Watches her with awe, like she's something sacred. Like what just happened between them 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 her, fingers idly tracing the curve of her hip.
"You're the only place that feels real," he whispers.
She doesn't answer.She can't.
Instead, she lets him hold her.Lets him believe.Lets him think he's special.Lets him think she's his.
Because as long as he's here, she is.
He leaves just before noon. Exactly on time.
Kisses her hand. Promises to return next month.
His worship, paid in taxpayer gold.
The door shut behind him.
Silence.
Anastasia stood, still bare, and walked to the shower. Steam spilled through the marble room like a whispered prayer. The water was warm—almost too warm—but she didn't flinch.
She scrubbed slowly. Methodically.
First her arms. Then her shoulders. Then everywhere else.
The soap smelled like jasmine.
She hated jasmine.
It didn't matter. Nothing ever did.
She washed until her skin turned pink. Until the memory of his mouth faded. Until the ritual of cleansing dulled the feeling of being touched.
She was a shrine.A holy vessel.A form of worship.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Wet curls clung to her neck. Her eyes were blank. The runes beneath her skin glowed faintly—like whispers under candlelight.
Beautiful.Perfect.Divine.
She felt disgusting.
The water ran cold before she stepped out.