Ethan and Gregory flank me as we make our way through this godforsaken house in the middle of a fucking cornfield in the middle of fucking nowhere, USA. Why in hell anyone chooses to live here is beyond me. I just hope the girl isn’t a fucking dimwit. A year is a long time.
Ethan is whispering something in Gregory’s ear. Gregory is even quieter than usual.
I glance back at them, and I know Greg’s quiet misleads people into thinking he’s the safe one, but he’s not. He’s the most sadistic, if you ask me. I mean, if there are degrees. Can sadism be measured in degrees?
“We decide together,” Ethan says to me. He’s repeated this mantra for the last forty-eight hours.
“I decide, little brother.” He’s twenty-five, three years my junior. Gregory is twenty-four.
“She’s all of ours,” he says, sounding like a fucking toddler who doesn’t get his way.
“No,” I clarify, and I’m trying to be patient because really, I can’t blame Ethan for being the way he is. “She’s mine.”
“She’s only yours first.”
“Give it a rest, Ethan,” I say.
“Sebastian.” My stepmother’s heels click over the hardwood. “Don’t fight with your brother. You know I don’t like to see that.” She goes to Ethan, touches his cheek. “You’ll all have your turn with the Willow whore. They’re resilient.”
Her loathing of the Willow women is so obvious, a part of me wishes the chosen girl luck because she’ll need it to walk out of the Scafoni home when her three years are up. It’ll take someone with a spine of steel to survive my stepmother, never mind my brothers and me.
“Why do you hate them, Lucinda?” I ask, enjoying my power over her.
Truth be told, she probably hates me as much as the Willows, but it doesn’t matter. I may not be her biological son, but I am master of the Scafoni family. My father is dead, I am the eldest, and I have no intention of letting anyone rule me or usurp my place, especially not Lucinda.
“They’re whores, Sebastian. There to serve a purpose. Remember that instead of turning on your brothers. Family first. Never forget it.”
“You don’t have to remind me of that, Lucinda. I just wish I understood your hatred of them. I mean, what are they to you? You’re not a Scafoni by blood, after all.”
This irritates the fuck out of her, and that fact makes me grin.
The library doors open, saving her from having to answer.
A thousand candles burn inside, casting a warm glow over the large room. I’m not sure which scent is stronger, that of old books, of melting wax or fear.
I spy the first white sheath, and as much as I like to tell myself this is nothing more than a family obligation, a thrill runs through me.
I’m excited to claim my Willow Girl.
Lucinda falls back, as is her place.
I step forward and turn to my right, where Mr. and Mrs. Willow, the proud parents of this generation’s crop, stand with ghostly faces. I nod my greeting. I am civil, at least.
I take in the room, still avoiding the girls on their blocks, saving them for last, appreciating the ancient library—the only thing old about this house, the rest having been rebuilt ten years ago, and it was done cheaply too. I hate cheap. But I guess by then, the money from the previous reaping was running out.
Based old sketches, this house was once a grand estate, before the fire that ravaged it years ago. But the library is the most important room, the one kept up to par, as per the contract. And it’s the only one I care about.
Beautiful old wooden beams overhead keep the roof from collapsing on our heads, and arched windows reflect the scene within. I wonder how bright it is during the day. If you can see particles of dust a thousand years old disturbed when ghosts rummage through the old tomes, searching for a way out of this nightmare for their girls.
I harden at the thought, and for a moment, I understand Lucinda’s hatred. The Willows aren’t the only ones cursed to repeat this ancient, insane tradition.
A candle flickers.
I wonder if the dead Willow Girls of generations past stand witness to tonight’s harvesting.
It’s with this thought in mind that I let my gaze come to rest on the spectacle before me.
Four girls.
Four beauties, because the Willow’s only breed beauties.
Three dolls, perfect with their golden hair and enormous blue eyes. One…well…I cock my head to the side at the sight of her. This one is bound, her arms stretched behind her. A gag covers her mouth.
And on the belly of her shift, there’s a streak of red.
Pig’s blood.
I decide to save her for last.
I move to the first, let my gaze slide over her. She drops hers to the floor, where it should have been all along. I sweep her from head to toe and back. The sheath doesn’t offer much cover, but that’s the point. They are to be laid out for my perusal. For me to take my pick.
Because I am fortunate enough to be born a Scafoni and they unfortunate enough to be born a Willow.
This one is pretty enough. Perfect, actually. But I move on to her sister.
Another doll-like girl.
She doesn’t drop her gaze to her feet but keeps it just beyond me. It’s high time the Willows were reminded of their place.
This one has something different in her eyes. She’s coquettish, almost. And she’s making eyes at my brother. From the look of her, I’m surprised she’s not the one with the blood marking on her sheath.
With her, I’ll be bored. And she won’t survive a single month, much less three years.
Sadly, there are no trade-ins. Once the choice is made, it is made, and if the girl dies before her time is completed, well, our loss, I guess.
It’s unfair, really.
I step to my left, to the next block, the next girl.
Just like her sisters.
I’m too anxious to reach the last one to spend any time on this one because perfection like this, it doesn’t interest me. I need more than physical beauty.
Where is the fun in breaking a girl when she doesn’t have a spine to break? Where is the game in walking a meek little lamb to the slaughter?
I’d prefer a cat, wild and feral, with sharp teeth and a sharper tongue.
With this thought in mind, I step to the last Willow Girl.
She isn’t a doll. Not like her sisters, at least. Beautiful, still, but this one, there’s something about her, a darkness to her. Rebellion burning inside her.
Or maybe it’s just arrogance.
It makes one corner of my mouth curve upward.
This one is no lamb. I see it in the icy midnight eyes that greet me, and I realize why she’s bound and gagged. She’d lunge at me if she could, and the thought makes my dick hard.
I walk a circle around her and confirm that her wrists are bound in leather restraints at her lower back. Not only that, but she’s shackled to the block. I guess they weren’t taking any chances.
When I face her again, she doesn’t shy away, this girl, but holds my gaze. And right now, I want nothing more than to punish her for it.
She’s different than the others. I decide to call them the dolls. This one, her dark hair is so black it’s almost blue. It falls straight and heavy down her back, long enough to wind around my hand, thick enough to withstand my fist.
I step to her, and even standing on the block, she has to turn her head up to keep my gaze, but she does.
“Switch on the lights,” I command.
I want to see the bounty. Fuck tradition.
The room is drenched in bright light on my order, and Ethan is quick to step toward me.
“Not her. Take any other one but her.” It’s irritating, the sound of his voice. Like a fucking fly that keeps buzzing at my ear.
I don’t acknowledge him or his comment. He needs to learn his place sometime.
My eyes are locked on the girl. She stands watching, defiant.
Petite, almost. Maybe 5’4” off the block, I’d guess. A good foot shorter than me. She’s naked beneath the sheath, as instructed. I look down at the dark pink points of her nipples, cold beneath my inspection, pressing against the centuries-old cloth.
I study her, keep her gaze as I gather the sheath in my hand and stretch it, holding the marked spot out.
“I’m sorry,” her mother says.
I turn to the woman. She lowers her gaze, and her husband steps forward, then bows his head in apology.
Because what that streak of blood means is that she failed the examination. This one isn’t a virgin.
I fist the cloth and bare her feet, her knees, thighs, pussy. That’s when I look down, when I feel that thick mound of dark curls at my fingers.
She stiffens, exhales audibly, and if I listen hard, I think I can hear her scream on the inside.
“Lower your gaze,” I tell her, squeezing the hair, making her wince.
She lifts her chin higher, and I see the workings of her throat as she swallows.
“Do as he says!”
It’s her father. And I want to kill him for his intrusion. She’s mine. I will be the one to teach her. I will be the one to punish her.
“Lower. Your. Gaze.”
I curl my fingers down to cup her pussy.
She falters, and for the first time, I see the terror in her eyes. It overtakes the hate. She blinks, her spine bends, and finally, she drops her gaze to her naked feet.
I release her, step back, and watch the sheath drop to cover her. I feel her on my fingers, and I don’t wipe the damp away.
“Her name?”
“Helena, sir.”
It must burn to call a man half your age sir.
“Helena.” I try it out. I think I’ll keep it. “What’s this?” I pick up the silver streak of hair.
“It grows that way. She’s had it since she was a small child. It’s in my wife’s family.”
Yes, it is. I remember now.
And I know she’s the one I have to take. Perfectly imperfect. Opposite her sisters.
Flawed.
Her hair feels like silk in my hand. Heavy, smooth silk.
I nod, turn my back.
“Her,” I say and walk out of the room.