Rejected To Be Your Second Chance novel Chapter 87

　　　~Layla~

　　Trapped within the twisted grasp of a psychopathic, narcissist king, my privacy stripped away leaving me with an alarming fear. The door opened up every now and then as someone came to deliver food, pillows, clean, or just stand there in eerie silence. At this point, there was nothing to do. I had inspected the people coming in more often, and they all shared something in common— empty looks in their eyes, as if they were marionettes pulled by a clear string. Right now, that was Jackson; he stood in the corner with his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes barely blinked as they fixated on me sitting on the bed.

　　"Can I help you?" I asked.

　　"You have asked that before," He said.

　　"Yes, but I hoped that your answer would be different this time around," I said and smiled as charmingly as I could.

　　"It's not." He said coldly. My smile turned into a frown, and I continued to mindlessly flip the pages of a book I was reading. It was some sappy story of the Emberclaws, clearly written by a person who was in favor of their cause. It made me sick, but apparently, it was a holy scripture to these people and burning it would most likely result in an uproar.

　　The hours passed with little excitement and Jackson stood perfectly still in his spot. He hadn't eaten or faltered a single inch from his position and I was starting to think that he was sleeping upright.

　　I closed the book and tossed it on the bed.

　　A loud knock on the door had the man-statue finally move as he walked with stale steps over to open it.

　　"Come in," he said lowly and stepped aside. Two girls stepped in, covered in the lace sheets. One of them carried a garment bag and the other held a tray with a bowl of red paint and a candle.

　　"I'll be back when she's ready," Jackson said and stepped out. The door closed and locked behind him and the girl barely acknowledged me as they set up on the dresser.

　　One of them, she was a bit older with a long blonde braid that fell right above her ass, came over and grabbed my hand. She had an expression of indifference on her face and didn't speak as she led me over to a small stepping stool. I didn't fight back. I sat down and examined their movements while an unsettling feeling covered me from the lack of sleeping.

　　She again proceeded to grab my hands and I yelped as she pulled me up on my feet again.

　　"Maybe if you just tell me what to do, I can help instead of being dragged like a doll." I said in a lower tone to hide me annoyance.

　　The woman lifted my arms over my head and started pulling my shirt up. I instinctively swatted her hands away and stepped back.

　　"What the hell are you doing?" I swear by the goddess that if they tried to dress me in those sheets that they wore I would lose my shit.

　　"We're changing your clothes." She said in a monotone voice.

　　"No, you're not. My clothes are fine," I snapped. I had been wearing these clothes for far too many days but I didn't care; If these were dictated by the king, my only reasonable option is to decline.

　　"It's the king's orders," She said. The redheaded girl was much younger; she just stood quietly and watched the exchange happen without chiming in. But as the tension rose, I could see a twitch of fear in her eyes when the king was mentioned. That right there was an actual expression, I never would've thought fear would be one of them.

　　"Did he order you to change my clothes, or was the order just that I should change them?" I asked, looking away from the girl and back at the woman. She lifted her head with a fierce look and raised a brow.

　　"Good," She said and clenched her firm jaw as she walked over to the dresser. She turned off the lamps, lit the candle with a bright, burning flame, and sat me down on the stool.

　　The older woman looked furious as she grabbed my hands and held them out. She went down on her knees in front of me and dipped her fingers in the red paint and started making spots on the back of my hands. She smudged the paint out in lines and floral patterns whilst the girl poked a metal syringe into the candle, emptying a liquid before pulling it out and side-eying me as she put it away.

　　The door opened, and Jackson walked back in. He was dressed in a black shirt and blue jeans, his hair had been slicked back, and he had the same red paint on his hands as I did.

　　He walked over, his eyes boring into mine, and the flame flickering its light across his face. Jackson stood behind me, and felt his presence, but it made me wary when I couldn't see him or what he was doing.

　　The woman stood to her feet and looked behind me; she graciously bowed her head, and they shared a silent message in the darkness. She turned around and carefully reached out her hand and grabbed the candle.

　　Jacksons arms came around neck. His arms shot out and grabbed mine, pinning them behind my back as he spun me around and pressed my back against his front.

　　"What is happening?" The fear in my voice was not well concealed as the woman stepped closer with the candle. Jackson’s grip tightened, and he leaned down to my ear and I could feel his cold shivering breath tickling my neck.

　　"Shh, it’ll be over quickly," he mumbled. His chilling whisper sent shivers down my spine, promising an unsettling termination.

　　"Hold her still." The woman said as she watched the flame. The wax around the fire was melting and a green hue started forming around the edge. The girl was standing straight behind her and she carefully moved the syringe out of sight. She slowly approached with nothing but a dull expression.

　　"No, what are you doing?"