My thigh burns.
It's an odd ache between desire and pain. I itch, rub, and scratch, but those two perfect, circular punctures remain in the skin, though no blood seeps out.
It took so long for the desire he'd forced into to dissipate, leaving my body feeling more like again. The power he has to overco my natural revulsion is terrifying, and I spend way too much ti dreaming up horrible scenarios in which I'm used as a sex slave to a vampire.
Though, he didn't seem to have much interest in the actual sex aspect, outside of… how did he say it?
Oh, yeah.
Flavoring.
The word makes shudder. He's going to drain of every drop of blood one day.
And no matter how long I sit here, I have no ideas on how to fight back.
What would Ava do in this situation? I can't believe she would sit here and let it happen to her. She'd fight back sohow, right?
But…
Ava isn't exactly human, either.
Maybe once, but not anymore.
Shivering in the cold, I roll carefully to my other side, using my clothing scraps as a barrier between my skin and stone.
I can't wear them. May as well lay on them.
My body aches in ways I never thought possible. The frigid temperature of the floor seeps through my bones, an insidious chill that refuses to abate no matter how tightly I curl in on myself.
Manacles chafe against my wrists and ankles. I tug at them with a weak yank every so often, knowing it's futile but unable to resist. The tal is unyielding, the chains too strong for my human strength to break.
But I can't give up. I won't.
I have to hold on to hope, to the belief that I'll make it out of here sohow.
But how?
I close my eyes, trying to summon every scrap of knowledge I have about vampires. It's not much, just bits and pieces gleaned from movies and books…
And none of them really agree with each other.
So, that's not super helpful.
None of them ntioned how they're cold, either. So very, very cold.
I rember the way his touch had been like ice, his fingers trailing over my skin like the caress of winter itself. But after he drank from , after he'd taken what he wanted... he was warm. Almost human.
Is that what they do? Steal the warmth from their victims, leaving them shivering and weak in the aftermath? It makes a twisted sort of sense, a parasitic existence that feeds off the life force of others.
But if that's true, then maybe there's a way to use it against him. If I can make myself too cold to be appealing, too frigid to provide the warmth he craves...
No. That's stupid.
I'll die from that temperature.
I'm not entirely certain I won't die from it right now.
I take a deep breath, ignoring the way my lungs protest the damp, musty air. Slowly, painfully, I force myself to sit up, the chains clanking with every movent. My muscles scream in protest, but I grit my teeth and push through the pain.
It shouldn't hurt this much. Is it the cold? Is it from sothing he did when he fed off ?
Or is it just pain from laying on the stone floor for—how long has it been? A day? Two?
I can't do much, not with my limbs bound as they are. But I can move. My body stretches, twists, and turns with so protest, my muscles tight.
Eventually, things get a little easier.
I can't do anything I'm used to, adapting everything to my shortened range of motion, focusing on stretching and using my body weight to create resistance.
Stay strong.
Stay focused.
I can't fight back if I just give up and laze around on the stone floor.
The steady rhythm of my movents echoes through the dank cell. Breathe in, breathe out. Each exhale is a little deeper, a little louder as my heart rate picks up. I can feel the warmth spreading through my limbs as I stretch and contort within the confines of these chains.
Progress. That's what I cling to in this dismal place. Any small victory over my circumstances fuels my determination to keep fighting, to never surrender.
A sharp scrape of stone against stone shatters the trance, every muscle in my body tensing. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle as dread washes over in icy waves. He's coming back.
I curl inward, huddling in the farthest corner as the echoing footsteps grow louder. My mind races, desperately grasping for anything I can use as a weapon, a ans of defense this ti. I will not be a helpless victim again.
The stale air shifts, carrying a new scent that makes my nose wrinkle. An acrid tang underlies the ever-present must, sharp and chemical.
I watch in trepidation as the stone wall groans and slides open, scraping against the floor.
It's not the vampire.
Thank God.
She's tiny, barely cresting five feet, her delicate features at odds with the dreary confines of this place. Short, feathery brown hair fras a face that would be pretty were it not for the sickly, translucent pallor of her skin. Her eyes are an unnatural green that glows in the dim light.
My gaze drifts lower, and I can't stifle the blush that creeps up my neck. She's clad in little more than scraps of lace that cling to her slender fra, leaving very little to the imagination. tal cuffs cup her wrists and ankles, but there's no chain holding her down.
Angry red marks mar the exposed skin of her shoulders and thighs, full teeth marks. Bites, but not the vampire kind. Others are vivid punctures.
Just like the wound on my thigh.
She moves with a strange, jerky grace, her bare feet making no sound as she crosses the floor. A tray laden with food is clutched in her trembling hands, which she sets down before with exaggerated care.
A bowl of soup. A plate of broccoli. Strawberries. A steak that's already cut into bite-sized pieces. Rare, of course. All things I can eat with my fingers.
A cup of water. Nothing fancy there.
Once her task is done, she scurries away, pressing herself into the farthest corner from . Her haunting green eyes are wide, watching my every move with an intensity that raises the fine hairs on my arms.
"Hi?" My voice is little more than a raspy whisper, my throat sore and ravaged from screaming.
She flinches at the sound, but she doesn't reply.
I lick my cracked lips, trying again. "Who are you? Why are you here?"
For a long mont, she remains silent and unmoving, watching with those eerie eyes. Just when I think she won't answer, her lodic voice drifts through the dank air. "Marisol."
"Marisol," I repeat slowly, studying her slight form. "Are you being held here against your will, like ?"
Her reaction is instantaneous and violent. Marisol recoils as if I've struck her, her eyes flying wide with a look of abject horror. "No!" The word bursts from her, sharp and indignant. "No, I would never... How could you think such a thing?"
I blink, taken aback by her vehence. "I just thought, since you're chained up like , that maybe—"
"I am not chained!" she cries, her voice rising in pitch. Trembling hands clutch at her wrists, caressing the iron cuffs. "The Master gave these beautiful things to wear. He takes such good care of ."
A sick feeling curls in the pit of my stomach as her words sink in. The way she speaks of this "Master," the almost worshipful tone, is deeply unsettling.
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