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A new gown is waiting when you wake up.
It takes you time to understand. Takes more time every day to understand even the simplest things. Thoughts rotate slowly in your head, coalescing into sluggish comprehension.
You sit in bed for a long time with the fine coverlet rumpled across your lap, staring at the proffered dress, an evening gown of dark red satin. Loose skirt, plunging neckline, sleeveless—elegant, yet practical for your purpose. You can tell the Lady selected it herself, not her daughters.
Vaguely, you recall the days when the finery disturbed you. Now all you feel is gratitude. To be housed and dressed and fed by her, to be wanted by her, is more than you could ever deserve.
You remove your nightgown, fold it and put it in its usual place on your pillow, then wash up and don the new garment. Your hands tremble with anticipation. Your inner thighs are already damp. The Lady likes it that way; that’s why you’re never given underwear. She likes that you crumble long before she touches you.
You wait until the summoning bell rings. Then you slip from your room and drift down the hall. The route is familiar enough that you don’t have to consciously mind your step.
You hear flies buzzing nearby and feel hungry eyes, hear snickering and giddy whispers, but they keep their distance. The Lady’s daughters know you don’t need an escort; gone are your days of bumbling escape attempts. Still they watch, their hunger kept at bay only by their love for their mother. She doesn’t let them feed on you anymore. You are for her, and her alone. They know that.
They already got their fill anyway: the man you came in with, all that time ago. You’ve long forgotten his name and face. That doesn’t bother you like it used to.
You arrive at her chambers. You enter, and your breath catches in your throat.
She lounges on a divan, her body elegantly wrapped in a silk dressing gown. Her hair is flawless as ever, black curls framing her austere face. Her legs, long and powerful, hang gracefully off the edge of the cushions. Her sternum is exposed, her collarbones, the twin hills of her breasts just peeking out on each side.
You look upon the Lady Dimitrescu—your mistress, your goddess, your world—and a part of you breaks, a part of you that has broken over again every day since you first came here. You are rightly afraid, and rightly awed.
A memory calls from the void, an echo of an echo, a hint of the contempt you once felt. It finds no purchase in your mind and sinks back into the abyss. What once was is gone; all that matters is now. All that matters is her.
“That’s a lovely color on you, pet,” she says. Her voice, low and sonorous, makes you shiver, makes your sex twitch. It’s as huge and paralyzing as the rest of her, like the first thunder of spring rolling through a valley.
“Thank you, My Lady,” you whisper. You barely hear your own voice. You don’t meet her eyes—can’t meet her eyes—but you can feel how they bore all the way into you.
The Lady crooks one long finger. You flinch reflexively, although her deadly claws keep out of sight.
“Come here, pet.”
You go to her, weightless, numb but for that sickening heat deep in your core. Your body doesn’t feel like yours, hasn’t felt like yours for a long time. It’s hers, and she knows it.
She draws you close. Those massive yet graceful hands ensnare your waist, hard and cold as marble. You’re not sure who closes the distance.
When she kisses you, all other things cease to be. Her lips have the same marble chill as the rest of her. Your own body feels like a feverish prison in comparison. Her tongue pushes the taste of wine and old blood into your mouth, and those foggy memories return, unwelcome, reminding you of a time when that taste was nauseating. Now, though, you can think of nothing better.
She pulls you into her lap, and for one glorious moment your mouths are pressed even closer, but then she breaks away, pushes you back. You’re disappointed until she tugs the lapels of her robe open. Her incredible chest beckons, nipples just hidden under sleek fabric.
With a sound of animal desperation you bury your face there. Your lips map a trail along icy skin: up the ridge of her sternum, following the line of each collarbone, along the curve of each breast. You cup them; you don’t think you could ever get enough of their soft shape, the exquisite weight.
The Lady hums low in her throat, a sound akin to a purr, and runs her fingers through your hair. She leans back, encouraging you to take your fill. You know this doesn’t feel pleasurable to her—not in the way it does to you—but she knows how to make your blood race, knows satisfaction makes you compliant.
It’s bliss, but it can’t last forever. You’re not here to fulfill your own needs.
She maneuvers you easily, laying you out on the divan. You’re little more than a frail doll in her grasp. You couldn’t fight back if you wanted to. She rewards your obedience with a kiss, then kneels beside the divan and pushes back the layered skirt of your gown.
She takes your leg and pulls it wide, braces your thigh upon her broad shoulder. Your hip twinges, but the pain is small, ignorable. You shiver as cold, stale air licks your exposed skin. All the air in this castle is cold and stale, inhaled and exhaled by the nonliving.
The Lady takes a moment to simply observe, admiring the way you squirm beneath her. She dots a kiss on your thigh, smirks when a soft moan escapes you. She barely has to touch you anymore to get your blood moving the way she likes.
When she unsheathes a slim silver knife, it’s not the cold that makes you shiver.
She flattens her free hand on your thigh, right beside your groin, easily finding a patch of pale scars. She creates a new one, drawing a thin red slice with one precise flick of the blade. You wince, but keep quiet. The Lady licks the knife clean and sets it aside. She inspects the steady drip of blood pooling on the cushions beneath you, dribbling on your bunched skirt, and leans in for her first sip. Her eyes shut, and she sighs. Her breath is a freezing wind, dancing across your skin.
“You’re so good for me, pet,” she murmurs. She presses her mouth to the wound, tongue probing sliced skin. It stings bad, stings good. You whimper and roll your hips up. Your head is spinning, you want her so badly it hurts, a need that makes your stomach turn.
She chuckles, amused by your reaction. But she is not unkind, and offers up one hand as a reward. Her thumb drags over your slit, swiping through the wetness, and you choke out a moan.
It’s easy for her to slip a finger inside you. She slides it in up to the knuckle, then eases it out, crooking and dragging along your walls until she brushes the spot that makes you see stars. A few more pumps just like that, just the way you need, and she works in a second finger. Her fingers are large, and there’s a bit of pain, but it’s enticing, and cedes to the pleasure quickly.
Tears burn at your lashes—tears of relief, of gratitude, of despair—until the patterns in the wallpaper blur. You shut your eyes and give in, let your body move to her rhythm. You’re grateful for everything she gives you, for her benevolence, because you know she’s just as capable as taking what she wants without giving in return.
And while she gives, she takes—and takes, and takes, and takes. Her lips are sealed against your skin, locked over the cut, tongue swiping to keep it open. Your blood spills out, and she drinks it all. Between deep draughts she laps up the streaks that escape down your thigh.
Femoral artery, you recall deliriously. One of the body’s major vessels. Easy to bleed out from there. You’ve come close more than once, but that was when the Lady allowed her daughters to feed on you. They’re more excitable and less careful than their mother.
You remember the relief you felt when you thought you were finally about to die, and the disappointment that followed when you didn’t.
You reach your peak in silence, mouth falling open, body arching off the divan. She keeps her fingers moving, grinds her thumb against your clit, rides you through it.
You collapse, panting. You open your eyes, blink away the tears, but the wallpaper is still blurred and warping, the ceiling spinning above you. Shadows appear to take shape and come to life, colors bleed together.
You gulp and rap your fingers on the cushion three times to signal that you’re getting dizzy. The Lady doesn’t acknowledge it, but you know nothing escapes her sharp senses. She knows you’re losing blood fast; it’s up to her to staunch it.
You’re getting cold. Your head aches, vision swoops. It occurs to you that she might not stop this time. But she does.
She withdraws, licking her lips. They’re hot and dripping with the bright red of arterial blood. She slides a hand under your rear and lifts you, keeps your leg elevated. Cradling your lower body in that one strong hand, she pulls a medical box from under the divan and sets to work, flattening a roll of gauze over the cut. You wince. It will surely bruise with the pressure she’s using, but it’s effective.
When the bleeding slows enough that it begins to crust, she seals the cut with one final swipe of her tongue. Her saliva, thick and cold, does the job. She bandages your thigh and gently lowers your leg, helps you sit up. You flop forward into her arms with a groan.
“There we are, pet. Not so terrible, see?” She brushes your hair with her fingers, rubs your back in soothing circles. She cradles your backside again, this time with both hands, and seats herself on the divan with you straddling her lap. “You did very well for me. Good girl.”
Hearing those words in her deep voice stirs something inside you. You whine and press yourself closer, let your head relax against the cushion of her breasts. You don’t mind that her body offers no warmth.
You nuzzle against her neck, kiss her skin. It’s like kissing ceramic. You slide a hand between the folds of her dressing gown, between her legs, but she grabs your wrist, gently stopping you.
“I want to touch you,” you plead, your voice hoarse. “Please, My Lady, I just want to touch you.”
“I know, pet,” she croons, pecking a kiss on your hair. “But I’m afraid I haven’t wanted such things for myself for many years now. Your blood is more than enough for me.”
You tuck your face into the silk and cry quietly, because it’s not fair. She touches you, she takes and gives, she makes you feel like no one else ever has. All you want is to return the favor, show her how grateful you are. But she’s above that, above you, so very high above.
She’s not a lowly warm-blooded animal. She’s not human. Desire doesn’t mean the same thing to her that it does to you.
Eventually, she sends you away. She has things to do. You’re not sure what, you don’t know what she does when you’re not with her.
You return to your room. The cut on your thigh throbs, and you make sure to prop your leg up on some pillows when you crawl into bed. You don’t change out of the dress, want to keep her scent on you for as long as possible.
You cry, sniffling softly, hugging a pillow to your chest, because you’re not with her. When she doesn’t need you, you are without purpose.
You touch yourself to thoughts of her. It’s unsatisfying. You cry harder, until you eventually cry yourself to exhaustion. You don’t fight the advance of sleep. You have nothing better to do than sleep.
Deep down, you hope you won’t wake up.