Chapter 7

Anastasia was in her bedroom, thinking. Her orders were clear: relieve Clarence from his virginity. It sounded easy, but for the little fact that he was her brother. The directive was clear, and she wasn’t worried about the taboo of it. After all, she was a slave and her duty was to obey. It wouldn’t be the first time, after all, she had made love with her mom many times, for the Master’s pleasure. What troubled her, deep in her bones, was the sense that Clarence would not go along with the plan. Anastasia had met him one-to-one just a few times, one of them at the lake. Despite their apparent closeness, she knew there was a coolness in him, that he didn’t trust her.

Anastasia ran scenarios in her head, watching them play out like grainy film reels. Maybe Clarence would turn her down flat, his eyes narrowing with disgust, his jaw tightening into a hard line. Maybe he would say yes—timid at first with downcast eyes and trembling fingers, then growing bold, his breath quickening against her neck as they moved together on his narrow bed. Maybe he’d laugh at her, a harsh bark that would make her cheeks burn, or even worse, cry—silent tears tracking down his face while his shoulders shook. Maybe he’d see the whole thing as a test—her mother’s attempt at control—and react with a stubborn refusal. Or maybe, and this was the scenario that made Anastasia’s stomach clench, Clarence would let it happen and feel nothing, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, treating the whole experience like a vaguely unpleasant hospital visit, counting the seconds until it was over. Anastasia had her pride, and was not interested in being anyone’s medical procedure, somebody to be endured rather than desired.

But her orders were her orders, and she had no intention of failing. She stood and walked to her closet, fingers trailing across the hangers. She considered her inventory: the red silk that screamed desperation, the black lace that promised too much, the baby-doll that belonged to someone younger. Nothing frilly. Nothing too sharp. She settled on a champagne-colored negligée, the fabric thin enough to reveal the shadow of her nipples but opaque enough to maintain mystery. In the bathroom, she spent fifteen minutes applying foundation that matched her complexion perfectly, mascara that lengthened her lashes just enough to frame her eyes without looking artificial, and a tinted lip balm that left her mouth looking naturally flushed. Her reflection stared back at her, ready for the hunt.

As Anastasia walked to Clarence’s room, her champagne negligee rustling against her thighs with each step, she rehearsed lines in her head. Clever jokes about school, observations about the thunderstorm brewing outside the mansion’s windows, small kindnesses about their time at the lake —anything to pierce the inevitable tension.

When she reached Clarence’s room, she stopped with her knuckles hovering inches from the wood, fingernails freshly painted a subtle pearl that caught the light. Something nagged at her—a flutter in her stomach like a trapped moth—but she quickly dismissed it and knocked, three quick raps. The door opened with a slight creak. Clarence stood there, wearing a faded blue T-shirt and gray flannel pants that pooled slightly around his bare feet. His hair was still damp at the temples. There was nothing welcoming about his posture—shoulders neither squared nor slumped, arms hanging loosely at his sides—but nothing forbidding either; he was simply there.

Anastasia’s lips twitched into what she hoped was a smile. “Hi, Clarence,” she said. “Can we—” she swallowed hard, “—can we talk?”

Clarence stepped aside, wordless, and gestured for her to enter. The room was dark, the only light coming from a single lamp in the corner, and the air smelled faintly of soap. It was evident she had caught him after his night shower. Good, she thought. He’s already half-dressed.

Anastasia sat on the edge of the bed, hands in her lap. She looked at him and smiled.