Shame and Loyalty

A torn, brutal woman’s scream shatters the silence of the night. Then, a dull sound, like a body hitting the floor, echoes from the first floor.

Anarena wakes up abruptly, torn from her deep sleep. Her breathing stops for a moment. Her eyes fix on the door in front of her—half open, as if someone had left the room in a hurry… or had entered.

She doesn’t move. She doesn’t blink. She just listens. Her thoughts run хаotically, but each one is more unsettling than the previous one, “The servants? No… it’s not an accident. Something happened. Thieves? Bandits? Or… something else?”

A cold shiver creeps down her spine. Fear begins to take root, but it is quickly suffocated by something else—that dangerous, irresistible curiosity.

She slowly gets out of bed, without a sound. Her hand slips under the pillow and grabs the gun, as if it had always been there, waiting for this moment.

The room is drowned in darkness. Only the pale light of the moon slips through the tall windows, drawing long, distorted shadows on the walls. Enough to see… not enough to feel safe.

She raises her weapon, her finger close to the trigger.

Anarena knows her house too well, every creak, every crack. She doesn’t turn on the light.

She leaves the bedroom and heads to the left, where the stairs descend into the dense darkness of the lower floor.

When she reaches the end of them, she notices a faint, flickering light coming from the lounge. She stops. Listens.

Muffled voices. Fragments of words. And that sound—a strangled moan, as if someone had been silenced by force. She goes down step by step. Her heart beats faster.

Once downstairs, she presses herself against the cold wall, next to the half-open door of the room. She tightens her grip on the gun, feeling the cold metal in her palm.

She slowly tilts her head and looks through the crack of the door.

On the floor—crushed grapes, smashed strawberries. An overturned plate. A broken glass from which red wine slowly drips, like blood. Her gaze lifts, she sees a silhouette on the table, with a bare back. With short hair, cut harshly, its bright red looks almost black in the dim light. On her head, a tie is tightly bound over her eyes, turning her into a vulnerable… and dangerously exposed presence.

Anarena recognizes her immediately. Isira. Isira’s legs are spread wide, her body arching slightly, caught between tension and surrender. She struggles weakly, not to escape… but as if trapped in a sensation too intense to control. From beyond the door, Anarena hears nothing but her breathing—heavy, broken, filled with something that no longer resembles fear. “What is she doing here…?”

Anarena’s gaze becomes sharper, more attentive. She searches the shadows, the shifting lines of the room, trying to distinguish the other presence.

And then she sees. Isira falls back, powerless, as if her body no longer obeys her. Her head tilts to one side, lips slightly parted, her breath trembling.

Between her thighs, only a man’s head can be seen.

Brown hair, slow, deliberate movements, almost cruel in their patience. The rest of his body remains hidden, swallowed by shadows.

Anarena closes her eyes abruptly, as if she could erase the image from her mind. Her back presses against the cold wall, but it doesn’t calm her. On the contrary—it intensifies every beat of her heart.

Her breathing becomes heavy, irregular.

She can’t believe what she saw. No… what she is seeing.

She wets her lips, trying to regain control. But the air feels too dense, too charged. As if every sound, every movement in that room pulls her back, against her will.

After a few moments, she opens her eyes again and looks.

Samueli stands, in a stillness that dominates the room. Between his fingers, he holds a fine cigarette, a Cohiba, lit—the smoke rises slowly, in thin spirals, like an extension of his control.

His black robe hangs carelessly on his shoulders, revealing more than it should. Shadows play across his skin, carving his outline in an almost indecently precise way.

But that’s not what pins Anarena in place. It’s his eyes. She sees them clearly, even from the shadows—heavy, dark, fixed on the scene in front of him. It’s not just a gaze. It’s possession. It’s cold satisfaction and that smile.

Slow. Full. A smile of pleasure.

Isira lets out a sharp cry the moment Samueli brings the cigarette close to her leg while he fucks her. The sound cuts through the air—pain, but not only pain. There is something mixed in there, something disturbing, almost desired.

Her breathing breaks, quickens, and her body arches involuntarily. The cry gradually turns into a lower, heavier sound—a mixture of suffering and pleasure that makes the scene even harder to understand… and impossible to ignore.

Samueli is not in a hurry. For him, every reaction matters. Every flinch. Every sound.

Anarena feels her cheeks burn. Not just from shame… but from something deeper. Between her legs, a strange discomfort appears—tense, but at the same time… pleasurable.

She holds her breath without realizing it.

Her gaze remains fixed on Isira—on the way she reacts, on the living contradiction between pain and surrender.

The gun in her hands suddenly becomes too heavy.

She lets go of it with one hand.

Slowly. Without haste.

Her fingers rise to her neck, touching it lightly, as if testing something unknown. She inhales deeply, and her hand slides lower—over her chest, over her abdomen—slow gestures, almost unconscious.

And then she lifts her gaze. Samueli is looking directly at her. He isn’t surprised. He isn’t angry. He just… looks at her.

Fixed. Intense.

He doesn’t break eye contact, and the rhythm of his movements becomes faster, more forceful, more dominant—as if her presence didn’t stop him… but provoked him.

Anarena takes a step to the left, instinctively pressing herself against the wall. Shame rises suddenly in her chest, hot, hard to control. “He saw me…”

The thought hits her harder than anything.

She remains still for a few seconds, trying to gather her breath, then pulls herself out of the shadows and quickly heads toward the kitchen, located on the opposite side of the lounge.

She enters and turns on the light.

The cold light hits her directly, too clear, too real after the heavy darkness from before.

She places the gun on the table, the metal making a dry sound. She immediately turns to the fridge, opens it, and takes out a bottle of juice. She no longer has patience for formalities—she brings it straight to her lips.

But before drinking, the image returns. Samueli’s gaze. The way he was staring at her.

— Fu…

She exhales shortly and begins to drink, the cold liquid sliding down her throat, but it fails to extinguish the heat that has ignited inside her.

Samueli had seen her. He had seen her watching them in secret—hidden, but not enough. Her wide eyes, filled with fear… and something else.

And he had liked it.

From her gaze, something in him ignited more strongly than before—not just desire, but an old obsession, deeply rooted. But in the moment she lifted her eyes toward him… everything changed. It was no longer Isira in front of him. It was her. Anarena.

The image slipped into his mind mercilessly, replacing reality. Every gesture, every movement… became hers. The thought pushed him further, more intensely, more dangerously. A name burned on his lips. Hers.

How much he wanted her to be there… on the table. To hear her trembling breath, to feel her presence close, real, impossible to ignore. To know every reaction, every shiver. It wasn’t something new.

He had wanted her for years. A desire that never faded—only grew, in silence, in the shadows.

Her soft voice was enough to disturb his control. A simple word spoken by her stirred his senses, like a storm kept locked away for too long.

Sometimes he had the feeling he was on the edge—that if she touched him, even for a moment, anywhere… he would completely lose control.

Samueli, with his robe open and the cigarette between his fingers, slowly walks toward the couch in the corner. He takes another drag, deep, then lets the smoke slip from his lips. Isira removes the tie from her eyes and blinks lightly, adjusting to the light. Her gaze falls on him, and a satisfied smile blooms on her lips.

— Mmhh… you’re like a real animal.

Her laugh is soft, heavy, after which she leans back on the table, completely without hurry.

— You need to go to the bathroom. To wash.

Samueli’s voice is low, serious, contrasting with the still heated atmosphere in the room.

He tilts his head slightly, his gaze lowering for a moment, then brings the cigarette to his lips. With a slow movement, he pulls the robe over his body and ties it, hiding everything under the dense black of the fabric.

— Mm…

Isira turns her head, watching him carefully, savoring every movement of his.

— Don’t you like to see how a woman remains… marked by pleasure?

Samueli only lifts his gaze toward her, looking at her through his lashes, calm, almost cold. He takes the cigarette from his mouth and exhales the smoke in a thin line.

— I like it… but you have to leave.

His smile is light, but something theatrical hides within it. Isira studies him for a few seconds, then gets off the table and walks… naked… toward the exit, without a trace of shame.

— Put something on. I don’t want the servants to see you like that.

She leans against the door and looks at him with a playful expression.

— You’re jealous.

A barely perceptible smile touches Samueli’s lips.

“Jealous of you? No…”

His gaze darkens slightly.

“I don’t want her to see you like that. What she’s already seen is enough.”

He brings the cigarette to his mouth again.

Isira walks to the couch, takes her long black dress, with a deep slit at the back, and slowly puts it on, without hurry. Then she heads toward the exit.

Samueli no longer follows her. His gaze remains fixed on the painting in front— a portrait in which he, Anarena, and Amanda appear. The shadows seem to move across the painted faces, as if hiding more than they reveal. Isira leaves the room.

She stops for a moment in the hallway, noticing the light on in the kitchen. She smiles faintly, then continues her way to the shower, with calm, confident steps—as if that place belonged to her.

Anarena notices her from the kitchen. She leaves the bottle on the table, her fingers slowly letting go of it, then turns and heads toward the lounge, drawn back as if by a force she cannot control.

She enters. Samueli is just lighting a new cigarette. The flame of the lighter briefly illuminates his features, then disappears. Noticing her in the doorway, he places the lighter on the table without hurry and lifts his gaze toward her.

They look at each other. Anarena says nothing. Her gaze slides over him, then, as if avoiding something dangerous, she turns her head toward the table—the place where Isira had been. The image returns instantly to her mind. Samueli’s smile. The way he had seen her.

She shakes her head slightly, as if trying to chase it all away.

And she walks toward the painting.

Samueli, leaning against the back of the couch, watches her without hiding it. His gaze becomes darker, sharper—almost predatory.

He studies her slowly. Her nightdress, blue like the sea, falls softly over her body—fine, elegant, made of a thin material that follows every line without being vulgar. The delicate straps leave her shoulders bare, and the short cut reveals her legs, accentuating her silhouette in a natural way.

Anarena stretches slightly toward the painting, her fingers nearing Amanda’s face. In that gesture, her dress lifts barely perceptibly… but enough.

Enough for him.

Samueli’s gaze drops for a second, then returns. Inside him, the desire, which until then had only been smoldering, fully awakens.

— Not even two weeks have passed since mother died… and you’re already bringing women into the house.

Anarena’s voice is low, but sharp. Her fingers touch her mother’s face in the painting, the gesture becoming almost protective.

She stands with her back to him, but slightly turns her head.

Samueli doesn’t answer immediately.

For him, his wife’s death is not a shock. He knew. He anticipated it. He accepted it.

— Anarena… the fact that my wife died doesn’t mean I have to remain alone. This is how… I relax.

He brings the cigarette to his lips, calm, as if discussing something trivial. Anarena pulls her hand away from the painting and turns fully toward him.

— Seriously?

Her gaze burns, but her voice remains controlled.

— Anarena, you’re mature. You’re almost 23. There’s no point in arguing over small things.

— Small? For me, this is not a small thing.

She doesn’t raise her voice, but every word is firm.

They look at each other.

His cold gaze hits her harder than any response. In that moment she understands—for him, her pain doesn’t matter. He looks at her coldly. “I understand, my dear…” Samueli tells himself in his mind. He puts out his cigarette in the ashtray, without taking his eyes off her.

— Oh, Anarena… I didn’t even see you! Oh, what a beautiful daughter you have, Samueli. What are you doing here?

Isira’s voice appears from the doorway. Both of them turn their gaze toward her. She stands leaning against the door, loosely wrapped in a bath towel, smiling as if nothing is wrong.

— Where is your dress? Samueli asks.

Anarena looks at her only for a moment, then moves away toward the window, ignoring everything.

— I left it. I thought it would be more comfortable like this.

Isira smiles and approaches Samueli with slow, fluid steps, almost feline. She sits in his arms and kisses him without hesitation. He doesn’t react.

He doesn’t touch her. His gaze remains fixed on the thin thread of smoke rising from the cigarette.

Isira touches his face, her fingers sliding over his skin.

— Anarena, maybe you should leave? You’re disturbing us.

Her words ignite something in Anarena—anger.

She turns her gaze toward them. Isira’s hand slides down Samueli’s abdomen… but he suddenly grabs her wrist.

— Leave.

— Yes, Aner, leave…

Samueli turns his head toward Isira. His gaze changes completely.

— You take your things and leave.

Isira blinks, surprised.

— You mean… leave?

— Exactly. You take your clothes and go. You can take the towel too… as a souvenir.

He suddenly stands up from the couch, pushing her aside.

The towel falls. Isira remains still for a moment. Anarena watches, shocked. “What’s wrong with him?” She has never seen him like this. Samueli takes the glass of whisky from the table and empties it in one motion. He places it back, then turns toward Isira.

— What are you doing? he asks sharply.

Samueli grabs her by the hair and starts dragging her toward the exit. She screams, surprised, the pain real this time. The guards appear in the doorway.

Samueli practically throws her at their feet.

— Take her out of here. And her things as well.

The door remains open. Silence suddenly falls over the room. Anarena stands by the window, motionless. She can’t believe what she has seen. And most of all, she doesn’t understand what changed in him.