by Amy Miles
A hiss passes through my clenched teeth as I shift on the straw mattress of my canopy bed. The wooden frame creaks loudly as I grip the bedding. My knuckles are white with pain.
It has been three days since my husband last came to be with me. Three days since he scourged my flesh with a glass-tipped whip after I dared to attack Lucien in his room. I knew a severe punishment was coming. Although Lucien survived my attack, with the help of Vladimir’s blood, my husband took great delight in seeking his vengeance upon me.
The first day, I could hardly breathe through the pain. I counted the passing hours by the throbbing in my flesh. Embers from the blazing fire Vladimir lit beside my bed landed atop my open wounds, flitting over my raw flesh, driving me to the brink of insanity. The heat was unbearable, the pain severe enough for me to struggle to disconnect my thoughts from the agony.
I had thought that I had grown strong while imprisoned within Lucien’s torture chamber, yet when Vladimir split my skin over and over again, I learned I was wrong. Pain breaks you no matter how strong you are. In the end, everyone will succumb to it.
I pleaded for death on the second day yet knew it was well out of my reach. The pain had shifted from agonizing to maddening as my wounds slowly began to heal on their own. Vladimir sent Emeline and Clement to tend to my fire. They only darted glances in my direction before hurrying from the room, as if they themselves might receive the same treatment for lingering too long.
Tears were my companions as the sun pranced across the sky. No one spoke to me. No one tended to my wounds. I was alone.
Today, I am angry. No, I am something beyond anger now, although there is no word known to man or the undead to describe it.
My skin crawls at the thought of Vladimir’s hands upon me, his bare flesh against mine. I would take a thousand lashes of his whip to avoid another night in his arms. He sought to ruin me, emotionally and physically.
In the first few days after my transformation, I would simply turn my face away and pray that he would finish with me quickly. However, his needs were insatiable. Night after night he would visit me, though he quickly grew weary of my catatonic state.
My body is no longer good enough for him. He wants my mind now too. He wants me to look at him as he ravages me, to scream when he strikes me. I do my best not to give in, though at times I am unable to stave off my cries.
I have lost track of how many times he has come to me. A part of me does not wish to know. As I lie here, immobilized by pain, I have realized a new truth. Vladimir wants me for himself. This he made very clear, though I feel his desire for me runs far deeper than mere flesh. No. He wants to contort me into something like him. A monster he can control and unleash at his bidding. I am not a wife for him. I am a tool.
He does not just want a whore to warm his bed each night. He wants a savage that will give in to his whims, enjoy his sadism. An equal that he has never had before.
I watched as his eyes grew alight with fervor when he saw the pain in mine the day I attacked Lucien. The moment I came alive, fighting to protect myself from his whip, he knew he had me.
The forms of torment steadily increased through that long night, although my pain threshold did not. I tried not to cry out, biting my tongue so hard I feared it might severe completely from my mouth, yet his patience was better than my own. His ability to inflict pain is an art in which he and his brother seem expertly mastered.
I lost count of the number of dislocated joints, purple bruises, or burns that marred my flesh. He shattered bones one at a time, leering down at me as I fought against my screams. Lucien watched from the shadows. I could see the gleeful glint in his eyes.
Escaping the dungeon was not enough. Now, I have two men to fear.
I close my eyes briefly to the memories, desperate to lock them away with all of the others. I wince as I twist at my waist on the bed, praying for relief to come in a different position. Warm blood seeps from my wounds as my movement tears through the thin layer of new flesh that has begun to grow.
Salty tears sting my eyes as I listen to laughter from across the castle. My brethren are high in spirits this night. The attack on a local village must have gone well. More innocents slaughtered for sport.
The ice storm broke against the walls of this castle as I stared into the flames, praying for an end. I lost count of how many times Vladimir ravaged me that night, in between lashes with the whip. My blood clings to each of the walls, splattered and smeared as he tossed me about like a doll.
All the while Lucien smiled in the corner, taunting Vladimir, urging him on. He spoke in whispers, spreading lies about my plans to escape. He chose Rasnov as my destination, weaving tales of the men who would bed me. His words drove Vladimir to greater levels of agitation.
No doubt this is the town that was plundered last night. My throat clenches at the thought as guilt swells in my chest. Blood spilled. Families left in ruin for one twisted man’s whim.
I was wrong about Lucien. He is not just a demon. He is the father of all evil.
I know this raid was not of my own doing, though I still feel the shame of such heinous deeds, as if their blood were upon my hands instead of theirs.
Vladimir must be pleased.
Will he come to my bed to celebrate this night? I pray he remains with one of the wenches below instead. Let them pleasure him for once.
I turn my head and bury my face into the feather pillow. It smells of sweat and blood, a scent I have called my own since arriving in this horrid place. I know suffocation will not kill me. I have tried it more times than I care to count. Leaping from my tower window earned me nothing more than shattered bones and a respite in the dungeons that I have yet to fully recover from. I wish I had the willpower to drag myself to the fire and set the room alight, yet I know the pain that will come from the flames as they melt away my skin. Vladimir would never allow me to die by any hand other than his own.
Knife wounds heal, as do burns and scars. Death is no longer an option. At least not an easy one. This has become a way of life for me. Pain, hunger, loneliness… I can see no end to my suffering.
I have mourned over my fallen family these past few days, clinging to my pillow as if embracing my beloved sister. Yet as the ice storm lets up and the rains return, I have come to realize that she was the lucky one. Adela died swiftly while I die a little more with each passing day.
The frost upon my window melted long ago, although I cannot tell if it is from the rising temperature outside or the sweltering heat within the confines of my room. The apparent shift in weather brings me little relief. What lies beyond the castle walls is not for me. I am a prisoner. My room is my domain. Though small and insignificant, at least I can call it my own.
Eternity is something I never really thought about until my wedding night when I was murdered and brought back to life. A half-life. A cursed life. Now, I cannot stop thinking upon it… nor of my guilt.
Lucien may have wielded the blade that severed my sister’s throat, but I tasted her blood. I sank my teeth into her flesh. I saw the terror in her eyes. Perhaps I am already the monster that Vladimir seeks, I ponder grimly as I lift my blurry gaze toward the window. The stars are trapped behind wisps of gray cloud, the edges beginning to lighten. The rains have let up for the moment, though I sense they are not done with us yet.
My sister’s blood is upon my hands. How many more will suffer her fate because of me?
I close my eyes to the thought. With each lash, each droplet of blood spilled, I have learned how precious blood truly is. It is not just a heartbeat, though rather the essence of life itself. It sustains. It heals. It destroys.
A knock sounds at my door. I close my eyes, praying Vladimir has not come.
I cast a glance at the window and notice the first hints of dawn piercing through the low-hanging clouds. It is late for a visit from him. Usually he finishes with me by now and slumps off to bed. After a night of butchering, he will hopefully pass out amongst my brethren in the hall below a
nd leave me in peace.
“Roseline?” A voice calls through the wooden door. The man’s accent is thick and bears hint of a foreign lilt. I stiffen, biting down upon my cry as my exposed flesh contracts. Warm blood begins to pool along my back.
It is the stranger from the dungeon.
“I have nothing to say to you,” I reply in a whisper.
There is silence from the other side of the door. I hear him brush his hand against the rough grain of the wood. His stance shifts and I imagine him leaning to one side, placing all of his weight onto one foot as he did while speaking to me in the dungeon. “Will you allow me to enter?”
Why has he returned? Did Vladimir send him to toy with me further?
I inhale, attempting to define the scent on the other side of the door. I catch a whiff of leather, mud, and smoke, though that could describe many of my brethren who live beyond the castle walls.
I do not answer. I cannot. Tears squeeze out from between my closed eyes as I feel his betrayal far more deeply than that of my husband. I was a fool to think an immortal could be kind. Foolish thoughts of a foolish girl.
The urge to sink into the layers of my duvet grips me as I hear the latch of my door click. I close my eyes and slow my breathing as he crosses the threshold of my doorway.
I am hardly in any condition to defend myself against this man should he decide to attack. Despite his earlier kindness, I have learned while living at Castle Bran that everyone has an ulterior motive. Especially the men.
Is that why he has come? Perhaps I was wrong all along. Perhaps he was working for Lucien instead of my husband. Has Lucien sent him here to defile me despite Vladimir’s strong protest?
The floorboards creak as he steps heavily across the length of my room. My pulse thumps loudly in my ears and I know I am not fooling him. He could hear my frantic heart beating long before he entered.
His approach slows as he nears my bedside. I breathe in when he draws close and catch the scent of horse beneath the layer of mud that must be caked to his legs. The fragrance of rain hangs heavy upon him. Surely only a fool would be out in weather such as this. Not even Vladimir, with his heart blackened by bloodlust, would want to raid in such a storm.
He has only just arrived from beyond the wall. That would explain the smell of smoke that surrounds him… He must have paused beside the hearth to dry himself before coming to see me.
Where has he come from in this foul weather? Where did he go after he left me? Was he paid handsomely by Lucien for his services rendered?
Even as these thoughts traipse through my mind, an image of Lucien’s rage buried within his eyes when I stepped into Vladimir’s room resurfaces. He did not know I had been set free. What if I am wrong to assume this man is anything more than what he appears to be?
The uncertainty of this stranger’s intentions drives me mad. I resist the urge to turn and look at him. Partially because of the pain it would cause to maneuver in such a way, yet mostly because I fear his presence.
Why does he not speak? Why does he just stand there watching me?
“I know you are great pain.” His voice is deep yet quiet, low enough not to startle me. His accent boasts a perfect reflection, though fails to cover the fact that his ancestry is obviously not of our lands. Will I ever discover from where he originates?
I suck in a breath and hold it. There is no use pretending any longer. I can hear the leather of his vest shift as he crosses his arms over his chest, waiting. I wonder how large those arms might be. Are they connected to fists that will beat me? Or fingers that will carve into my flesh with delicate care?
I felt his great strength when he held me in the dungeon, fighting to free me from my chains. His touch was firm yet tender. He never gave me any reason to truly fear him. However, that does not make me less suspicious of his sudden return. Surely he does Vladimir or Lucien’s bidding and that means he is my enemy.
“I am sorry.” His words are barely above a whisper, shocking enough to make me long to see him for myself. When I look upon his face for the first time from the far corner of my eye, I see that his gaze is riveted to the blood-stained sheets that are rumpled upon the bed about me, instead of on my nakedness.
Though he has seen me in a similar state, this time is far worse. The light of the fire and the dawn spilling through the window highlight every wound, every curve of my body. I have never felt so laid bare before.
“For what do you have to be sorry?” I grimace as I fight to shift position. His face pales as his gaze flits up toward mine and then darts away again. I long to capture a better glimpse of him, yet he remains on the edge of my vision.
“No woman should endure such tortures,” he whispers.
I close my eyes, wishing I could believe that he truly believes these words, yet I cannot. “You should not say such things. There are too many ears.”
“Indeed.” He instantly agrees. “Though I would say the same for the sake of any lady.”
“I am not just any lady, though you are already all too familiar with that, are you not?” I grit my teeth against a ripple of pain that begins somewhere near the base of my spine and shoots up toward my neck. My skin is stretched too taut in this position, yet I am afraid to move and lose all sight of him.
“No,” he says as he comes to kneel beside me. “That you are not.”
EIGHTEEN
