CHAPTER FOUR
NICHOLAS
My father holds up the arm of the girl who has just been branded. I know her, from the files I’ve been given about each of them, as Daphne Knight. She's the daughter of a member of the House of Lords. She sobs with the pain, that she must be experiencing, from where the society’s crest is forever branded onto her porcelain flesh. I should feel regret, for what I’ve just done, but I know that I had no choice. I can't show weakness in front of these people who, this time next year, I’ll govern. Another girl is brought forward. This one isn’t dragged. She comes willingly to her fate. Elizabeth Sandford, a Lord Bishop’s daughter, no less. Judging by the fact that she’s pushing her lips together in a sexy pout, she's looking forward to what’s about to happen. She pulls the material of her dress up and reveals a toned and tanned thigh. She’s definitely been preparing. She pulls it a little too high and exposes the edge of a bare pussy. I ignore the blatant flirting and brand her. She whimpers but doesn't break down like the first girl. She has spirit — I like it. I bet she would fuck like a dog in heat.
My father drags the first girl forward to the front of the stage.
“As first declared in eighteen hundred and eight, during the reign of the mad King George III — all girls born to members of the society, in the eighth year after the birth of the son of the incumbent Duke of Oakfield, are to be handed over to the society. This tradition has continued, in perpetuity, down the family lines since that date. My son, Nicholas, has reached the required age, and thus, all girls born in nineteen ninety-seven must be given to us. It’s in our ruling documentation and to deny this clause will lead to dire consequences.”
I brand another two girls while he speaks. Both sit on the stage, crying tears of pain from the imprint of the society’s crest.
“We have five girls here today — five virgins from which my son will choose his wife.”
I cringe at that bit of my father’s speech. I don’t want to marry even if all five of the girls before me are fuckable. I’m a playboy and would rather continue in that vein than be tied to one woman for the rest of my life. A woman who'd most probably hate my guts anyway. Mind you, if my own mother is an example to go by, then my wife is unlikely to be around for long. She died when I was five. They say she slipped while walking on the battlements at the top of the house. I’m not stupid, though. Presuming she’d gone through what I’m about to subject these women to, then it is more likely that she ended up insane and took her own life. My father didn’t really care about her death. There was no grief — he couldn’t remarry as per the rules of the society, but he could fuck every bit of skirt willing to open her legs for a Duke. The best-case scenario might even be that the woman I marry kills herself before I get her pregnant, and I don’t have to subject my children to this ritual crap.
“If any person here doesn’t hand over their daughter, then they’ll be cast out of the society and all their assets taken away. These are the rules we live by.”
The room falls silent. No man will dare go against the society. Nobody of rank within it ever has, and nobody ever will. Money, it’s the one thing we all crave, and we’d even sell our daughters just to get it or, in this case, to keep it. The silence is broken when the next girl is called up.
“No fucking way.” Her sultry swear has me turning my head toward the commotion. Several of my father’s bodyguards, or as I prefer to call them ‘hired goons’, surround the girl, so I can’t see her. “If you think I’m going to let him do that, then you're fucking insane.”
Damn, she needs to stop swearing — it’s turning me on with the raspy melody of her tone. The guards part when a punch comes flying through the air. I see the vibrant red tresses that follow it, and I know this is the girl who was looking at the paintings. She is exquisite to the eye. All curves and breasts even in the most unflattering dress. Her big eyes are almost emerald in color. I’d immediately wanted to savor her flesh, knowing that it would taste like perfection. But as she’s dragged toward me, I see the hatred in her eyes and know that she'll never willingly give herself to me, and I don’t take what isn’t offered. I don’t need to.
“You're all mad. The lot of you. I don't consent to this. My father may have, but I never will. Let me go, or I'll scream so loudly that someone will call the police.”
My father laughs before addressing the assembled crowd.
“There's always one who thinks that she’s bigger and better than her fate. I don’t know why they bother to fight it.”
“Fuck you, you freak.” She swears again, and my cock lengthens.
“Enough time wasting, we've a long evening ahead of us, and we need to get on with it. Hold her down. Nicholas, the iron. Brand her,” my father orders. The men descend on the poor girl, and they grab her hands and legs to pin her to the floor. She has no decorum or grace, at this moment. She’s a wild animal fighting for her life. She's a scared antelope to my savage predator. I stalk her like the ferocious animal I am — a lion hungry for its dinner, and the smell of her fear entices me. Panic overrides modesty, and her sex is bared to me. Fuck, I want her. I’ll have her. No, I need to concentrate. I can't allow her femininity to cloud my judgment. I need to succeed. I’m the next Duke of Oakfield. I'll rule this society as soon as I choose a wife. She needs to be shown she's nothing now — a pawn in a fight she can't win. I take the poker and place it hard into the flesh of her thigh. The gossamer skin burns with an acrid smell, and she screams and screams. It's not a cry of ecstasy but one of agony. My throat clenches, and the guilt I feel wraps me tightly in a blanket of disgust. I throw it off, though. She's the one at fault and should just accept her fate. There's no point in fighting what’s happening here — it will happen even if we say we don’t want it to. Nothing can change what’s about to occur — least of all the screams of a girl too young to know better. I look down at her as tears stream from her eyes.
“Stupid girl. You'd be better to accept your fate rather than fight it.”
“Go to hell,” she whimpers.
I laugh.
“Don’t you realize? You just entered hell, and there’s no chance of leaving.”