Love & Exorcisms | 18+ | COMPLETE |

- Chapter 45 -

Canal Street was a place seldom tread by girls such as I. Lined with numerous boutiques, high-end cafes, and spa parlors - the latest fashion amongst well-to-do ladies - Canal Street boasted a pricetag that was well out of reach for most. The main drag featured shops three floors tall, with faux balconies adorned with vines and doors with tiny, unusable knockers. The window displays even had geared mannequins, that spun slowly upon their platforms or raised their wooden arms as if to wave at passersby. Well-dressed ladies were chauffeured about by bicyclists pulling pastel, doll-like carriage behind them. The scents of freshly roasted coffee and warm cinnamon pastry wafted through the air from the many cafes. Loudspeakers on the streetlamps played the sultry voice of a French singer, accompanied by violins and trumpets. The canal itself stretched down the middle of the wide roadway, partially obscured by tall trees whose branches were adorned with golden orange leaves.

I was utterly overwhelmed. Damian had Jacobi park the carriage under a long low roof constructed near the final port at the very head of the canal, so he and I walked together down the street. I could not remember a time I felt more self-conscious than I did then, walking amongst such high-fashion folk in such a plain dress and cheap shoes, my hair still in its simple braid. I should not have cared - but I knew how it looked: Damian was obviously not my husband, so he could occupy only one place in the minds of those who glanced at us: my master, my owner.

I shuddered at the thought, and tried to keep my head high. But I could scarcely even bear the thought of looking in the shop windows. These items were far more expensive than my purse could ever hope to cover. The thought of looking, desiring...trying such things on...the thought of Damian buying such things for me... it prickled my pride unbearably, and so too did it rouse my shame.

Still the same little girl who can't care for herself. Always the whore for something aren't you? Your mother never could have worn such finery, yet here you are: rewarded for being a slut.

I hissed, stopping still in my tracks and clutching my head in my hands. The urge to scream at them to stop was growing in me. I was vaguely aware of Damian moving his body to shield me from the looks of passersby, and his hand touched gently upon my back.

"Talk to me, Samara," he said. "Don't be afraid. I'm right here."

His voice made my feet feel a little firmer in reality. I sucked in a breath, and said softly, "They're talking again. Shaming me. Telling me I should not be here."

"Do you feel the things they say are true?"

"Yes," I whimpered, though my voice became angry as I continued speaking. "I don't deserve these things. This is a place for fine ladies, not for...for whores."

"Is that you speaking, or your father?"

I was curious why he had said "my father" rather than the demons. I raised my head slowly, taking measured breathes as I met his calm and steady gaze. But of course, it had been my father's words they echoed. "The heavenly gates do not part for whores," he had told me, after catching me with the stable boy that fateful day - it felt like a lifetime ago. It also felt like yesterday.

"They dredge up words from so long ago," I said. "Words that shouldn't hurt anymore. Yet somehow it takes me straight back, and I feel small again."

Damian nodded in understanding, and looped his arm through mine. It was such a familiar gesture, and although we had certainly shared far more intimate positions, I felt my face redden all the same. How was it possible that I had seen men in every compromising position one could imagine, had laid eyes upon an endless stream of genitalia and sweaty bodies without batting an eye over the past ten months, yet something so simple as walking side by side with Damian Hearst made my lungs suddenly feel inadequate?