Phoebe
"M—Master requests that wine be brought to his chambers. H—he, h—has asked for you, Ph-Phoebe."
The man who had earned the nickname Reek from Master Bolton and from the others around the castle unfortunate enough to come within fifty feet of the creature and endure his unpleasant stench announced, trepidation, fear, displeasure, and disgust all laced in the single broken up sentence by the young man's stammers and his flushed expression.
The man formerly known as Theon Greyjoy was now perhaps the ugliest creature that Phoebe Snow had ever seen in her life or in her nightmares. The cretin standing in front of her cowering in the corner was as wide as he was tall, making him look somehow short but imposing at the same time.
His dark hair, formerly thick and luscious, was now brutally shaved close to the scalp by Ramsay and was in the midst of growing back, still little more than stubble atop his scalp. She froze as she dared to meet the traitor's gaze, her knuckles going white as she clenched the edges of the small wooden side table in the kitchens to steady herself.
She stared at Reek, or more specifically, the scars littered across his face and what she assumed had been but a perfectly good nose an hour or two ago, since she had last seen the man slither into Master's chambers and when he stepped forward, his gait was lame and odd, limping.
Phoebe could see it in his eyes that Reek was a broken shell of a man. He had once led an army, a battalion of men at his side.
An Iron Borne true. He was proud. Yet, here he stood with tears threatening to spill out of the corners of his eyes. Reek bore the expression of a child who had been told his mother was gone. Reek never spoke of his battles, of his life as Theon Greyjoy.
Yet, as Phoebe lingered in the doorway that separated the kitchens from the corridor of the eastern wing of the castle, where Master Bolton's quarters rested at the end of the hall, Reek was bereft. Shaking. Trembling like a leaf with no sign of stopping. "Please," he begged, and Phoebe had reduced poor Reek to begging.
One moment, her piercing gray eyes were fixated obediently on Reek's red-rimmed eyes, and then the next, they were rested on the bloody mess that had been a perfectly ordinary nose only an hour or two before. So ordinary, in fact, that Phoebe could not recall what it looked like. And then his walk was lame.
Reek's gait that was smooth only this morning was now faltering and uneven. The young blonde stifled a groan and bit the wall of her cheek and gingerly set the tin flagon of wine down on the nearest side table in the servants' quarters. "Can not you do it, Reek?" she begged desperately.
By the gods and seven hells below, why me? Phoebe blinked back tears as the creature in front of her shook his head no vehemently back and forth, and she knew she would have to do this. Are the gods so cruel as to make this my fate? Why are all the gods such vicious cunts? She bit the wall of her cheek.
Phoebe gave a curt nod, not wanting to keep Master Ramsay waiting, and yet at the same time, the man was a vicious hotheaded fucking cunt who, in her mind, deserved to starve and choke on his own fluids. But it was a long walk from the wine cellars to his chambers, and he'd already called for wine thrice.
The young blonde resisted the urge to crinkle her nose in disgust and gagged a little as Reek passed her by, not because Phoebe was repulsed by her haggard appearance, but because of the stench.
The man smelled like rotten eggs, rancid old cheese, like nothing in all of Westeros, a revolting, gut-wrenching, vomit-inducing mess, though several good, long, hot baths would take care of that.
Phoebe blinked back briny tears and felt her breaths catch in her throat as Reek blearily lifted his head and stared at the kitchen wench through glazed eyes. "M—Master specifically a—asked for you. Th—the only way to survive in this fucking house I—is to do as they say. You k—know this, a—and you should go before he gets e—even a—angrier," he stammered hastily, nervously.
She furrowed her brows into a frown as she glowered at Reek, the former Iron Islands young man who had since lost the traces of boyhood. She took in his appearance and Phoebe heard herself emanated a tense, nervous exhale. Reek did not seem all that much older than her, maybe a year or two, at best, though the fact that he no longer had his cock was rather problematic.
Phoebe watched as Reek ran his hands through the stubble that stretched over his scalp, thicker than a freshly harvested field. It was coarse to the touch.
All traces of softness was gone. His shoulders hunched together like he was trying to disappear inside himself. Even his eyes seemed to be attempting to retreat inside his head. It was her job to welcome any nobles or ladies that came to Winterfell, though that did not mean she could not be nice to her fellow servants, and so she made towards him with an outstretched hand and the kind of smile she usually reserved for her cousins. He startled like a deer in the woods, almost toppling as he took a large step backward. He brushed imaginary dirt from his filthy tunic and let his face fall with gravity again.
Phoebe stepped aside while he slunk past not looking left or right. She huffed in frustration, her fear manifesting as the hot-sparks of anger as she swiped the tin flagon of red Dornish wine off the wooden table.
The young blonde went as slowly as possible, at as petty a face as her feet would allow, wanting to delay the inevitable as long as possible. She glanced around the suits of armor and the coat of arms displayed proudly on the walls and suppressed a shudder as a cold chill traveled down her spine, chilling her.
The word 'eerie' to describe Winterfell ever since the siege was an understatement. In the shadow, cast by the castle walls, a chill crept over the grass outside as she paused to gaze out the window and stared out at the snow. Every flurry of snow caught Phoebe Snow's attention, sparked her mind to turn faster, her mind was screaming at her to turn around go back, but she knew that she could not. The crumbling, cracked rocks were layered on top of each other, caked with mosses and dried blood. Winterfell under the Boltons' reign was slowly crumbling, slower than the eye could detect over a lifetime.
Only the sun and moon witnessed the steady deterioration of what was once a magnificent threshold when the Starks, Lord Eddard, and Lady Catelyn, were alive, once the lifeblood of an ancient, noble, and proud family, now faded.
Within these very walls, Phoebe knew that her safety was not guaranteed but enhanced and there was some protection from the driving blizzard that raged war on the elements outside the castle walls. The castle rested like an old man of the hill, the moonlight shining of his craggy, and tumble down face.
Phoebe Snow swallowed hard past the lump in her throat as the silence outside Ramsay Bolton's personal quarters was like a poisonous void, needing to be filled with sounds, anything. The silence seeped into the kitchen wench's pores like a poison that paralyzed her from either speech or movement yet…
She had arrived at his study. She could stall no longer. Taking a deep breath, she ran a hand through her cropped blonde hair, wincing as her hand grazed along the back of the column of her neck, where there should have been hair. A punishment from Master last week for daring to accidentally spill his food.
Phoebe raised a shaking hand, her knuckles bone-white and knocked.
By the Light of the Seven, let me away from here. I'll…I'll do anything…
"Enter." Ramsay's voice was cold and impatient. Bracing herself, Phoebe gingerly pushed the door open, careful to hold the flagon steady to not spill it.
The kitchen wench was instantly hit with a sense of warmness. Glancing across the room, she saw he or one of the other girls had lit a fire in the mantle.
The fireplace in the room mimicked the warmth of the day in spring. Ramsay's features were half-illuminated by the flickering light from the fire's embers, the only source of light in the room. No other candles were lit, and the curtains were drawn across the window. The flames flickered lazily in the hearth.
Though the air wasn't necessarily smoky, she could smell the pine as the wood burned, just a faint fragrance that filled her nostrils. She blinked.
Master Bolton's piercing stare felt like ice had frozen her heart to ice as his cold gaze. Quickly, Phoebe Snow averted her gaze, afraid to look him in the square.
She felt her face pale in agony as his condescending gaze admired her slender form in her simple brown dress, and her cheeks redden as his eyes wandered up to her blonde hair—clearly admiring his handiwork from last week. "You summoned me, milord?" she found herself asking, unable to disguise the note of bitterness and hatred in her voice. "What is it my lord requires? More wine, perhaps?" she growled through gritted teeth, praying with all her might she could remain calm and collected. For her sake. Her life depended on it.
"Please," he replied, his tone courteous and teasing at the same time. She reluctantly moved forward with the flagon and poured until he bade her stop.
Phoebe felt his gaze pierce the back of her skull as she turned away briefly to avoid watching him as he drank. "Will that be all, my lord?" she asked timidly, feeling the slight catch in her breath at his movement as he continued to study her features, watching for any sign of hesitation or fear.
Ramsay set the cup down, his brown eyes twinkling dangerously. "Do you know what my father said to me the other night, little dove?" he asked his tone cold and testing her. Phoebe froze.
She hadn't anticipated being asked the question. Of course, I remember, she thought darkly. I was there, remember, Ramsay? I watched you flay a man alive with your own two hands.
"No, sir," she lied, dipping her head, fear in her voice.
"He said to me, 'Ramsay, your faults as a son is my failures as a father.' Think of, my lovely. To be told something so cruel. But my father was wrong," he spat bitterly, glancing into the fireplace before turning his attention back to her. "He never could see what I am. I, I am nothing more than a visionary with a simple dream. I do not care what you think of me as long as you obey me. I acknowledge that I have...odd methods, but they work. I know what life should be like and I understand that many creatures and things are inferior to me. In my position, it simply mercy. I know that if I don't save them with the wonders of death, they will die with the horrors of life." He finished and fell silent, musing.
Phoebe was rendered speechless, unable to speak. When she finally found her voice again, it was trembling. "Will there be anything else my lord requires of me?"
"You're very pretty, my lovely," he spoke up demurely. "Your beauty is truly unmatched. No other woman will do. You know, I was right to like you, my dear. Have you enjoyed working for me?" he asked, studying her for her reaction.
But gods, how she hated him. One day, I'll be free of you, Ramsay.
"I—yes," she responded, a little too quickly. "I have."
"The heads on the pikes in the yard don't bother you?" he asked, his tone light and pleasant as he carefully gauged her reaction.
Phoebe's fear of Ramsay was her challenge and her demon to slay, for it will come for her until she does, unannounced and gnarly. Her only way out was to order her brain to function, to demand solutions instead of this constant nagging anxiety.
So, though it felt as though her bones have no more strength and her muscles are out of power, she still had the option to remain still, to be quiet enough to choose how to fight her way out of this predicament.
Right now, the only way out was to play his damn game and stay alive. So be it. She suppressed a shudder and turned away for a moment.
Phoebe had always hated the pikes. The enemies of the great Bolton house, displayed on stakes for all to see, the whites of their eyes rolled back into their heads, their mouths open in a silent scream, their final noises in the last moments of their precious lives before going to meet their gods. had demanded a grand display of domination be displayed for who would dare to cross or question him. No one dared disobey Ramsay.
"No," she answered shakily.
"You know what happens to our house's enemies, my dear. You've seen it firsthand for yourself."
"My duty is to serve this house and its family, Milord Bolton," she hissed, whispering it through gritted teeth, feeling very much she might vomit soon.
"Good," he smirked. "It would be a shame if I were to find out you had intentions of thinking of trying to leave, Snow. You are one of my favorites…"
"My lord is too kind," Phoebe murmured quietly.
God how she wished she were anywhere else. Anywhere but here. If she could be with anyone but Ramsay. Ramsay set the cup down, his dark eyes sparkling dangerously as an idea lit in his brain.
A game. One he'd longed to play with Phoebe since the beginning of her servitude to the Bolton family name. "Kind. That is what you think of me, little dove, you are sorely mistaken. Allow me to show you how…kind I can be," he echoed sarcastically, smirking as he raised the cup to his lips and drained the rest of the merlot. "More wine," he demanded, setting the cup down, leaving it in front of him. "Now," he snapped. She flinched only slightly and moved from the end of the table to stand next to him, unnerved by the closeness.
Phoebe tried to step away as soon as she finished pouring wine into his goblet, but Ramsay was faster, catching the wrist of her outstretched hand that held the flagon. "Set it down, little dove. What on earth is your rush? You just got here, don't you think that you and I should have a little…fun, first?" he ordered calmly, doing his best to control his urge, but she wasn't fooled.
Oh, God... Phoebe swallowed nervously past the lump in her throat.
Ramsay grabbed her other wrist at her side and yanked her abruptly into his lap, setting her on his knee. He ran a smooth hand over the fabric of her dress. Fear trickled coldly down Phoebe's spine.
She knew all too well what happened to the girls who failed to obey Ramsay and the girls that bored him. She knows she has to play his game, unsure of how to win. "Such lovely white skin you have. A pretty picture, indeed. I wonder if you will still think me kind when I'm done with you," he murmured against the column of her throat, running his thumb over her prominent collarbone. Phoebe repressed the urge to shudder. "Surely you know what happens when a woman fails to do what I tell them."
He almost hated to ruin her skin. Almost. Ramsay had noticed the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
Goddamn it. This just proves my theory that the gods are vicious cunts, to curse me with this life for myself. She cursed herself for being so vulnerable.
"I do," she answered curtly, her eyes clouding over with hatred. She knew all too well what happened to those poor girls. Some of them still had their heads displayed on pikes out in the front yard, displayed violently for all of his enemies to see. The whites of their eyes rolled back into their heads, their mouths open in an eternal silent scream, their last noise.
"Are you frightened?" he asked bluntly.
"No, my lord," she lied demurely, her voice a purr.
"No?" he mocked, teasing her. "I think you are lying, little Phoebe Snow. And you know I hate liars, so I will ask you again. You seem very frightened to me. I can feel your heartbeat here, hear it pound and flutter so. That does not sound like the heartbeat of a woman who is calm, sweet thing," he replied, one hand snaked around her waist. Ramsay pressed his thumb beneath her pulse, fluttering wildly beneath her skin. "Say my name," he hissed through clenched teeth.
"N—m—my…my lord, I don't think this is a good idea!" she protested. "I want to hear you say it."
His voice had grown dangerously soft and quiet. She almost wished he would shout. She could handle it when he shouted at her when he raged. But it was his moments of quietness like this that worried her the most. Ramsay was unpredictable, volatile. Phoebe knew she had no choice.
"Ramsay," she acquiesced quietly, her voice soft like a gentle breeze. She brought her gray eyes up to meet his darkened ones.
His blue eyes were beautiful, although they lacked warmth and kindness. They were the sky and fire all at once whenever he was angry. How she ever reduce something so spellbinding to one word, when colors invited her to marvel in their simplicity?
But there was something else there. Something glistening, shining brilliantly.
Lust and desire for her. The need for power and control. Phoebe fought back the urge to claw at his eyes as Ramsay brushed his lips against hers, just so, kissing her lightly. Phoebe felt her body tense and hesitate, feeling her natural instinct to his touch to recoil and jerk away in disgust and flee from the room, but she could feel his grip tighten on her wrist. Hard enough to break it if he so desired, as he had done to her two fingers once before.
She was a monster, to go along with this. Ramsay extended his grip on Phoebe's chin. She made a small noise as Ramsay's grip tightened further and pulled away. He drank in her furious and flushed expression while maintaining his vice grip on her jaw. Phoebe gazed at him defiantly, her gray eyes clouded over with a burning fury at her predicament, and at him.
She hated herself and she hated him for her do this. Ramsay smiled. He reluctantly released his grip on her jaw, admiring the marks already blooming beneath his touch. He pressed a chaste kiss to one of them.
"Beautiful," he murmured quietly. "You're going to be even more beautiful when I'm through with you, my love, my angel, you are like a blank canvas, dear, my...new muse, my masterpiece, if you will," he crooned.
Ramsay wrapped a hand in her cropped blonde hair and pulled her head back sharply, exposing the line of her neck. Ramsay groaned as she shifted and ground his growing hardness, one of his hands finding purchase in her hair, running his fingers through her blonde wisps and stray strands.
Phoebe vowed that she would never have long hair ever again if this was what men were going to do to her. His fingers were entwined in her hair like a spider, creeping and crawling and enjoying the softness of her hair a little too much. He loved the feeling of it. Ramsay loved the softness. Ramsay pulled away, gazing heavily at the valley between her prominent collarbones, reaching for his dagger hidden beneath the sheaf of papers on his table.
Phoebe regarded it with passive anticipation and fear as he brought it towards her, his eyes glinting as he slowed his movement, studying the petite blonde's face, the overwhelming ache between his legs on fire now at the thought of such pristine, supple flesh just waiting to be marked, an unmarked canvas, and he, the artist. A masterpiece, waiting to be created.
Oh God, he's going to kill me. This is how I die. Here it comes, she thought, biting her tongue hard enough that she drew blood.
"Ramsay, what are you doing?" she asked fearfully, biting the wall of her cheek.
"Don't worry, this will only hurt a little," he assured her with mock sincerity before bringing the dagger point to her chest, drawing a thin line and deep there. She inhaled sharply, her nails digging into his shoulder, biting back a sound, holding her breath until he withdrew the dagger and set it aside.
Crimson blood flowed freely out of the cut and she drew in a sharp breath as he licked at the freely flowing wound like a dog would drink water from a bowl. Ramsay slid a hand up her back between her shoulder blades to keep her in place. She wasn't going anywhere he didn't want her to.
He slipped a wandering hand beneath the skirt of her dress, trailing it along the inside of the softness of her thighs with thoughts of future bruises to impart.
"So beautiful," he murmured, his voice low and heavy with desire for her. His angel of fire, the angel of passion and warmth. Her very touch left a trail of sparks in her wake. Ramsay pulled back for a moment to study her face.
Phoebe bit down on her tongue hard enough that she tasted the metallic tang of blood on the appendage.
"Does it hurt?" he asked, fisting a hand into her hair.
"Yes," she answered truthfully, her voice pained.
"Good. It needs to hurt. It's better this way, little dove. You'll see." He released her hair, his hands coming to grip her hips. Phoebe moved to bury her face in the crook of his neck to avoid looking at him, so Ramsay wouldn't see the rage in her eyes, but he tangled a hand in her blonde hair, pulling her back and eliciting a startled cry of pain from her. "No," he panted. "I want to see you," he growled. He pulled her hair and she made a broken kind of noise, whimpering at his harsh tug.
"Milord, you're hurting me!" she cried out, but it fell, as usual, on deaf ears. God save me from this hell, she pleaded but no one came. "Get off of me! Let go, you-you horse's ass!" she shouted, forgetting herself and reaching up a hand to claw at his throat.
"Seven fucking hells, stop fucking moving, you heartless little cunt," he cursed violently before wrapping his hands around her throat. He captured her lips, kissing her roughly while increasing the pressure at her throat, already imagining what it would be like to strangle the cunt.
Ramsay's reverie was broken when she abruptly pulled away from his demanding and hungry kiss, coughing, trying to get what little air she could muster to return to her lungs.
Phoebe dug her nails into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood and only when he slowed to a stop did she withdraw her nails from his shoulders, shooting a wrathful, defiant glare his way, her eyes flashing like the brilliant steel of a sword. Her eyes were her sword. She wrenched herself off of his lap and backed away, breathing heavily, still gasping and struggling to catch her breath.
A slow, sardonic grin spread across Ramsay's features. "I think I will, indeed, my lovely. I will want it again."
"Is there anything else my lord requires?" Phoebe asked, doing her best to quell the tremors in her voice. Her stomach churned and she fought back the urge to be sick. She thought for sure she was going to. Fight it back. Don't. Ramsay flashed a charming grin her way.
"There is, as a matter of fact, my pet. I have a new job for you, my dear. No, no, not that," he growled irritably as she began to straighten the things he'd trashed. Anything to avoid looking at him.
"What else would you have me do if not this?" she asked, frowning slightly, her graceful brows furrowed as she glared at him. Anything has to be better than what I just endured. God, please.
"I have a different job for you. One more suited to your skills, my love. One that should be relatively easy for you."
She stared at him, waiting. "What happened?" she started to ask, but Ramsay held up a stern hand, stopping her.
"Don't interrupt me, love," he snarled. "I don't trust the Imp not to fuck my bride at his every opportunity. You and little Reek are perfect for this job. It's why I appointed you the Stark girl's handmaiden, you see. I want you to follow her. Find out where she goes, who she spends her time with. I want reassurance she's mine," he spat, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
She let out a small gasp and put a hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
He ignored her, brushing away her comment airily.
"I thought for certain, my new wife might have...Anyways, that's not important. What is important to me, my lovely is you. You, my dear, are going to help me get vengeance for this inexcusable behavior. I will marry Sansa Stark, and that fucking Imp is going to pay with his own life. There's no one better suited for this than you, my love."
Why me? Get somebody else! Anybody but me! Don't make me do this, Ramsay, whatever you're planning, please oh please, get someone else to do it for you. I'll never be enough for you. I'm sorry. I can't do this to her.
Phoebe frowned at him; her face flushed. "B—but she…she is nice. Milord, why?" She knew as Ramsay looked at her, what he was thinking. Phoebe could see the look in his eyes.
He wanted to take her for himself. She had been the only woman ever to refuse his advances, despite multiple repeated attempts where he'd given it his all. She knew, however, the more she rejected him, the more insatiable he would become. It would only be a matter of time, but the longer she could stall him, the better her chances of survival. Phoebe made it challenging for him. She knew he liked a challenge.
He had never been one to shy away from one. Phoebe couldn't bring herself to give up her very dignity and grace that made her special, just to please Ramsay.
She let out a startled cry as he twisted her arm behind her back and gripped it tight, threatening to break it if she struggled against him in any way or tried to make a run for it. She wasn't going anywhere that he didn't want her to.
She could only watch in despair as Ramsay unsheathed a knife from his belt and held it to her throat and watched in horror as the blade pricked her skin and a single drop of blood fell to the floor. Ramsay leaned in close and she recoiled at his touch as he whispered into her ear, his voice smooth and seductive.
"If you don't do this for me, I'm going to destroy your pretty little face and make you one ugly whore, you little bitch."
He twisted her arm even harder and relished as she cried out, knowing full well she would comply with his demands.
I can't do this. There has to be a way out from here. There has to be. I can't go on living like this…
"You'll never be beautiful again," he snarled.
"M—Master, no! You can't be serious!" she protested wildly. When she begged, it brought fire to his loins. He groaned as he shifted against her back, his growing hardness becoming more pronounced. Not now. There would be time for that later. "You can't!" she begged, struggling against his hold.
"I thought that would get your attention lovely. And learn your words, you tramp," he snarled as he released her, shoving her forward to the ground, where she knelt on her knees in submission and glowered at him, furious but afraid of him. As he liked it. Phoebe swallowed hard, fighting back her tears. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. "Won't, not can't. I won't because you will. And if you won't, then I will. Ruin your face, that is. You don't want to test me, my lovely. You of all people know what happens to women who disobey me or displease me in any way." He glowered at her and smirked.
"B—but Master, why do you need me for this can't you—" she started to say, but her voice trailed off as a tremor went down her spine as Ramsay twirled the knife expertly in his hand, marveling at the gleaming silver, how it shined in the warm light from the glow of the fireplace's flames.
She knew he wouldn't hesitate to use it on her. Her stomach felt like ice as it froze over as she glared up at him from where she knelt on the floor, frozen and unable to get up or will her legs to work. Recognizing she had no other choice, she angrily brushed back a stray wisp of blonde hair behind her ear.
"What would you have me do?" she asked morosely.
Ramsay smiled. "Everything, my lovely. You'll do this for me, my love," he crooned, coming over and gently toying with her blonde strands. "You will if you value your own life."
She winced, repressing the urge to slap his hand away. "I can't do anything for you, Ramsay!" she protested. "I'm—"
Ramsay smirked, pleased at her groveling at his feet. He loved it when she obeyed him. She was his. "That's where you're wrong, my dear. You, my lovely, are the center of my entire plan. I can't do this without you."
He glowered at her as he collapsed into his chair and rubbed his temples. She could tell he was getting a headache. Phoebe didn't like where he was heading with this. She had an idea she knew what her part in this was, but she couldn't resist asking, anyways. She had to know for certain.
"What do you need me for?" Phoebe asked, frowning.
"I finally found a use for your talents," he sneered, enjoying watching her reactions change from shock to disgust.
Get someone else to do your dirty work. Not me. Someone else.
"It's not enough for me to just kill this fucking dwarf, no. He's not going quickly, this fucking Demon Monkey. I'm going to kill him slowly," he emphasized through gritted teeth, pressing the point of his blade sharply into his palm so that blood poured from his wound. He ignored the pain and watched, fascinated as the crimson blood stained his pristine blade red with blood.
Oh, God. Not that. Anything but this. Get someone else. Not me... "I still don't understand," she managed shakily. "What's my part in all of this?" she asked, afraid to look him in the eye.
He glared at her. She still didn't comprehend. She would.
"Come, my lovely little winter rose, you're a smart woman. Use your head. You, my dear, are going to follow Lady Sansa and her fucking husband and watch their every movement, and report back to me of your findings, dear." He smirked at her helpless expression, enjoying it. Phoebe bit her lip, fighting back her nausea.
"B—but M—Master I—I don't think this… I don't think you should—" she started to say, but Ramsay shot her a dark look that rendered her silent, waiting for him to elaborate further. She knew her place around him. Phoebe had learned the hard way. Ramsay let out a short bark-like laugh.
"You've been thinking? Oh, my love, we both know that's not your strong suit, is it, Snow? No, it's not. It's mine. Without me, you'd be nothing. You'd still be out on the streets, only as an adult, you'd be forced to open your legs for the first man who came along and showed you even an ounce of kindness, I imagine." He smirked and ignored the enraged expression on her face. "Consider yourself lucky, my lovely," he said calmly. "You're very fortunate."
Phoebe felt her breath catch in her throat. Dare she asks the question that was burning on her tongue, searing, and singeing it?
"If I do this for you, will you let me go? Will I be free?" she asked, leaving her question hanging in the air for several excruciating, long minutes, and painfully twisted her fingers together, nervously weaving her knuckles in between her fingers.
Oh, God, why did I even ask? What the hell is WRONG with me?
Ramsay smiled. "Of course not," he answered, his voice a smooth, seductive purr. "You belong to me, girl. I own you. Never forget that," he hissed. "Without me, you'd be on the streets whoring to survive, or you'd be dead. You should be grateful to be gainfully employed and have a roof over your head. Many women aren't as fortunate as you are. Consider yourself lucky. If you don't do as I ask, I'm going to destroy your pretty little face and make it so that no man will ever look at you again." He laughed and waited for her to respond.
Phoebe swallowed her anger when it was naught but a fire-seed and forgot to drink something cool, and so it grew deep within the pits of her stomach until her rage came out as hot as any dragon has ever flamed.
"You cannot do this!" she shouted, beside herself with anger.
She knew she would never forget the look in his eyes as the last of her patience snapped. How they darkened and flashed angrily at her outburst. Phoebe had no time to react as Ramsay wrenched her to her feet, one hand wrapped around her wrist in a vice grip. He slapped her across her cheek, his hand a blur as he moved.
Phoebe was all too used to him hitting her. The sound was loud and lingered long after he'd struck her.
She didn't flinch or turn away from him. She felt her jaw muscles tense and go rigid and hard as she accepted her punishment, but her eyes were blazing—a great fire that scorched everything to ash that they came into contact with. She was angry with him. A rare emotion for her.
The sting and sharpness stung across her cheek, burning. For a moment, Phoebe forgot her fear and glared at Ramsay until he towered over her with his hand raised, ready to strike her a second time if she chose to have an outburst again.
"I'm—I'm sorry," she apologized feebly. But it was no use. The damage had been done already. May the gods have mercy on me. I have no choice. I have to do this.
"How dare you talk back to me like that, you fucking bitch!" he roared. "You open your mouth to speak again, harlot, you will regret it!" Ramsay shouted; his eyes half-crazed with madness as he thought of the Imp fucking his bride.
"Why me?" she wailed. "Tell me!"
"There's no one better suited for this than you, my love. You will do this for me, my dear. I thought that would get your attention, girl. You do this for me, and I don't ruin your face. If you don't do as I ask, you know what happens when you cross me. I'm going to destroy your face and leave you alone to fend for yourself. See how long you last without my help and protection. You'll die without my care."
Ramsay's words, although cruel, were not incorrect. He had never spoken a harsher truth. Knowing she had no choice, she hung her head and nodded. It was all she could do. She would have to do this.
Phoebe blinked back salty briny tears and swallowed hard. There has to be a fucking way out of this mess. There must be. I can't do this.
Ramsay turned away, the corners of his lips curving into a satisfied smile. He dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
"Excellent. I knew you'd see reason, my lovely. Do this for me, and you'll never want for anything ever again. Jewels, gold, silver, gowns, whatever you want, and the world shall fall at your feet, sweet Phoebe Snow."
She recognized that tone. Once Ramsay had made his mind, there was no changing it. Even she couldn't persuade him otherwise.
It was only when Phoebe closed the door behind her that she allowed herself to cry, the briny tears stinging and blurring her vision. She angrily wiped them away, hating herself and her life. There had to be a way out. She couldn't help Ramsay kill someone.
Someone help me, she begged, only to be met with silence. No one was going to help her out of this one. She was on her own, as usual.
No one was coming to save her.