Madness: A Dark Revenge Romance

Part 2 – Four Years Later

INITIATION

ONE OF THEM

Junior year at Barrington University

They say we live in a man’s world. That if you’re a woman, all you have going for you is what’s between your legs.

I was born into a secret society that isn’t any different. Even more so, really. The women are used and tossed around like we mean nothing. While the men are praised for knowing how to use their dicks.

It’s sickening.

I’m not saying I’m out trying to change the world; I’m just trying to change mine. I want to know that kind of power. I want to have women and men fear me. Is it too much to ask that I get a fair chance to prove I can be useful other than in the bedroom?

The Lords have given me the chance. My mother told me not to waste it because I won’t be given another one. Mistakes aren’t tolerated in our world. If you screw up, you’re dead. Life is too short to second-guess yourself. Know your worth and make others see it.

That’s what I’m doing.

I’m sitting with a hood over my head, trying to calm my heavy breathing. I have to remind myself that if a Lord can do this, so can I.

This is what the Lords do to you—test you. I’m not fucking weak. I’m a woman who can take on anyone or anything, anywhere.

My hands are zip-tied behind my back. I can no longer feel my fingers.

Someone yanks the hood from my head. I try to blow the hair from my face so I can see, but the back of my neck is grabbed. I’m pushed forward, doubled over where I sit, and the zip tie cut. The hand fists my hair, causing me to cry out as I’m yanked to my feet and shoved forward.

I groan as my hips hit something hard, and I flip my hair back to see it’s the Lords altar. I clench and unclench my hands as they begin to tingle—the circulation coming back to my fingers.

My heart pounds in my chest as I slowly turn around to see I’m at the Lords cathedral. It’s tucked in the middle of the Pennsylvania woods and serves multiple purposes for the secret society. I’d been here once with my father back when I was younger.

I was sick to my stomach when I left with him because of what I saw. This time will be different.

The old wooden pews are lined with Lords. All dressed in their cloaks and masks—white with black lines throughout making it appear to be cracked with black circles around the eyes and matching lips. My legs begin to shake nervously, my throat closing on me.

Breathe, Annabelle. Lift your chin, push out your tits, and give them a smile. Show your teeth before you rip their throats out.

A noise gets my attention, and I spin around to look up at the second-floor balcony. I take a few steps back to the center of the aisle and stand between the third row of pews to get a better view. Someone sits in a chair, wrists tied to the armrests and ankles secured to the legs. She’s naked and has a hood over her head. By the sound of her muffled screams, I can tell she’s gagged underneath it.

“Annabelle Schults.” A Lord calls out my name, and I see him standing from the first pew. “Do you choose to accept your initiation?”

Squaring my shoulders, I swallow the knot in my throat. “I do, my Lord.”

His mask nods. “Then you know what to do.”

I wait for him to give me further instructions because I have no fucking clue. But instead, I nod and walk over to one of the staircases, making my way to the upper floor. My eyes drop to the baptism pool where the Lords hold their ritual for the vow ceremony, and I see it’s currently drained of all the water.

Seniors who attend Barrington University get to fuck in there to prove they’re men. I think it’s pathetic and barbaric. But it confirms that they made it. So if I have to spread my legs to get ahead in this world dominated by men, then I’ll fucking do it. How hard can it be? It’s just sex.

Coming up to the chair, I walk around the woman, taking everything in. She already has visible bruises on her pale skin. Her wrists are bleeding from how tight the zip ties are. Her hands are blue from lack of circulation. I see a tattoo on her inner thigh, but it’s hard to make out…multiple vertical lines in a row. I’ve never seen one like it before.

I wonder what she did to end up here, but I can’t ask. You follow orders, and that’s it. A small rolling cart sits next to her, and it has items placed on a blue napkin.

Scissors, a knife, and a stapler. A small red jug that can only be filled with gasoline sits on the floor next to the metal chair.

“Find her brand,” someone calls out, and my head snaps up to look down at the pews below. The Lord who spoke before remains standing, but they always have a distorted voice so you don’t recognize them. As if I would know them personally. Thousands of Lords exist around the world, and they’re multiplying like rats every day, considering how much they like to fuck.

My eyes drop back to the woman, and I see it peeking out from underneath the overly large hood that covers her head and parts of her upper back. I lift the heavy fabric just enough to see the Lords brand—a circle with three parallel lines through the center. Weird, why would she have it? Only Lords are given those. Unless she belonged to a Lord, and he branded her. That’s another thing about Lords—they like to mark what’s theirs. Whether they carve it into their women or tattoo it, it’s all the same. You’re his whore for life, even if he chooses to pass you around to his friends. You’ll always be returned to whoever owns you.

Clearing my throat, I call out loudly, “I see it.” I’m already a minority here. If you want to be seen, you have to be heard.

Speak up, darling. No one can hear a whisper. That’s what my father used to tell me.

The mask below nods. “Either cut it off or give yourself one in the same place.”

My eyes widen, and she starts thrashing in the chair.

“You have five minutes.” The Lord takes his seat in the first pew.

My hands instantly start to sweat, and my knees begin to shake. I’m trying to catch my breath and not look so weak in front of all these Lords. If I show any weakness, I’ll be the next one naked and strapped to a chair.

It’s always you or them. I refuse to let it be me.

I rub my hands down my jeans and grab the knife. Even though it’s small, it feels heavy in my hand. She’s screaming and shaking the chair, but it’s bolted down so she can’t tip it over.

Grabbing the back of her hood, I shove her head forward, and she fights me, trying to straighten it, knowing what I’m about to do.

Without another thought, I press the tip of the knife to her skin and begin to cut through the brand, ignoring the way she sobs as her blood covers my hands.

It’s harder than it looks. Or they made sure the blade was dull for this very reason. I feel bone as I dig too deep, and once I can grab the skin, I cut the rest off as fast as I can.

I walk over to the edge of the balcony and toss the blood-covered skin down to the first floor. It lands at the Lords feet, and his mask looks down at it before it looks back up at me. “Now kill her.”

My stomach drops at his words. Why didn’t they let me kill her first? Why make her suffer? It’s me they want to make suffer. She’s the one who’s bleeding, but they want me to live with the knowledge I’ve killed someone.

They set you up. It’s how they own you. She fucked up and must pay for her sins. On the other hand, I will have to live with her blood on my hands until they order someone else to kill me someday.

I turn to face the hooded woman once more, and I can hear her gasping for breath around her gag. She’s sweating profusely and shaking. Blood runs down her bony shoulders, small breasts, and anorexic stomach. Even in our world, we’re always told to look their version of perfect.

We’re groomed to be whores but never give it up willingly. Men give us crumbs, and we’re expected to survive off that. They prepare us to be thankful for the bare minimum.

How does a woman thrive when she’s kept in the dark and never watered? What these Ladies don’t understand is that we only have ourselves. I can only rely on myself.

Walking back over to her, I drop my eyes to the cart once more, and I see a gun lying in the lower basket.

I pick it up. It’ll be quick. I go to pull back the slide, but it’s harder than I thought it’d be. My father had guns. Hell, he was always packing. I grew up around them, and he took me to shoot. But I’ve never just picked up a gun and pointed it at a person before. Taking in a deep breath, I yank it back and see there’s a bullet chambered. I walk behind her and face my audience below. Pressing the end of the barrel to the back of her head, I keep my eyes open and on her trembling body as I pull the trigger, knowing they’re watching me.

The gunshot echoes through the large cathedral as her head hangs forward, and I feel my soul leave my body. She’s dead, and so is a part of myself. I no longer have one. I just sold it in exchange for I don’t know what. And deep down, I know it wasn’t worth it.

Trying to catch my breath, I make my way over to the stairs to leave, but I pause when I watch as the Lord who gave me the orders stands and so does the one sitting next to him, and then the one next to him.

I take a step back, my legs now shaking for another reason. My eyes go to the dead woman in the chair—it wasn’t messy. She’s covered in blood, but it’s more from removing her brand than shooting her in the head. It was straight through. An extra thin line of blood drips from the hood and onto the floor now that she’s hunched over.

I tell myself that they’re just coming to get her. To dispose of her body in the cemetery behind the cathedral—where all members who betray their oath are buried. But that voice in the back of my mind says I messed up, and they’re coming up here for me.

The three Lords split up. The first takes the stairs to the right, and the other two take the staircase to the left. Slowly, they make their way up to the balcony, and I place the gun on the cart so they don’t think I’m going to shoot them.

The two on the left make it to the balcony first. They both come to stand behind me. “On your knees,” one of them orders.

I want to run, but my legs give out at the order, and I do exactly as they say, kneeling in front of the baptism pool.

The one who gave the orders comes up beside me and grabs a pair of handcuffs off the cart that I hadn’t noticed before. He tosses them to one of the guys standing behind me. “Cuff her.”

Before I can say anything, someone slams a foot into my back. Pressing my face to the bloody floor, he smashes my bent legs underneath me, making it harder to breathe. My arms are grabbed behind my back where they cuff them. Then my shirt is ripped and quickly removed from my body. Even though I’m sweating, I shiver at the thought of being so defenseless in front of all these men.

I bite my inner cheek when my hair is fisted, and I’m yanked to sit up in nothing but my bra and bloody jeans as the Lords from below watch. I have a quick thought that at least the baptism pool is empty because I’d rather die by a bullet than drown.

The one calling the shots comes to stand in front of me, and I glare up at him, refusing to let the tears that sting my eyes fall. I will not look weak in front of them.

“You took a brand. Now you’ve earned one.”

The blood rushes in my ears at his words, knowing exactly what’s coming. Was that a test? The fact that I hurt her instead of taking the brand myself? If so, I failed.

I close my eyes and try to calm my breathing so I don’t pass the fuck out when I hear a blowtorch turn on behind me, heating the branding iron.

This is what you wanted, Annabelle. To be one of them. To be accepted into their fucking cult.

Not every woman in our world gets this opportunity. We’re only good for spreading our fucking legs and reproducing. I get to be more than that.

I was raised to understand that the Lords will give you whatever you want. You just have to be willing to give yourself for it.

So be it.