(ACT 01) These wounds don't seem to heal

“I'm a patient man. I can play this game for all of eternity, my love,” the King of Vampires reminded her, his voice deceptively gentle it was so condescending as he easily bent her in half, leaning over just far enough to drag his sharp teeth across her already bruised skin, almost teasingly, “...however, I will not stand for such disrespect. Especially from you.”

Her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat as her skin prickled under the scrutiny of his fanged mouth for the nth time.

“Well?”

(She didn't want this. She didn't want this.

She didn't want any of this–)

Somewhere far away, a quiet voice answered for her:

“I… I'm sorry…”

(Please, please, please, pleasepleasepleasehelpme-)

She was teetering so heavily between pleasure and pain that her brain could only make feeble attempts at proper responses as she just remained taut and pliant as a doll he so wanted, every single muscle rigid in tensed anticipated as she waited in bated breath for Roman to move, to hurt her again. To finish this please kill me just let it end, let it end–

But the vampire deliberately took his time with her as he always did when he was most displeased with her, dragging the punishment longer than usual, than what was necessary.

His sharp teeth grazing her skin just enough for blood to begin creeping out in small beads, lazily lapping his tongue across her bruised back, never mind some of the old open wounds that still stings, that will scar and never heal the same way; leaving bloody, sticky trails in his wake as he tasted her flesh and savored her fear as though there was a feast to be had from this broken body.

He so do relish in devouring her, savoring her blood like some wine connoisseur, bit by bit until there was nothing left for him to consume.

Just as he passed her neck, Roman's sharp teeth suddenly sank in without a warning, causing her to arch forward with a sharp, startled scream as raw pain washed through her, fierce and hot, like fire. Familiar but one she could never get used to no matter how many times he had done it.

Shifting so quickly caused her hips to smash against his throne and another sound, unknown to her, was ripped right from her throat.

...was that her voice?

(For how long had she been screaming?

Why was no one coming to save her...?)

Roman chuckled breathily at her scattered thoughts, dislodging his teeth from her neck, and repeated the same process on the other side, no gentler than the first.

She didn’t react quite so violently this time, but the corners of her lashes were starting to become damp as the useless tears gathered in her eyes again, already knowing what the vampire was planning to do to her next. Her body had already started to tremble just by thinking about it.

It hurt. It hurts... it's going to hurt again.

“This could be over so quickly if you did not try to leave me again, you know...” the vampire dragged his tongue over the bleeding marks, swirling his spit to mix with still-dripping blood.

I’m sorry I’m sorry...!

“My love, when will you ever learn? You did not have to leave me so soon, not when I just found you…” Roman muttered against her wounds, sounding so disappointed, distracted as though he was speaking to her but not her, the hurt in voice sounding far too genuine it was frightening how even she can almost fall for the lie—as though she was the one actually hurting him when it had been the other way around.

Her bloody mouth trembled.

She felt more than heard him taking in a deep breath against her… as though he actually had a need to do so, “Why must you always make me hurt you?”

You’re hurting me.

...but she dared not to say the words, too frightened to even properly look at him in the eye and scream the truth to his face. He had pointedly made it clear on the first night that he did not want to hear anything but apologies, let alone for her to look at him without being prompted whenever she tried to leave his bed, anyways.

So, she kept her eyes shut, trying to block out the sound of his poisoned voice lest she believes the lies that was beginning to sound like the truth itself, her mind mercifully taking her away from here, think of anything else but what was happening, what was going to happen again and again right now because she was nothing more but a sacrificial lamb to be slaughtered.

Think of home. Think of home. Think of home–

“My love, were you even listening?”

When Roman smiled, he always looked so angelic.

Beautiful.

And even with her eyes closed, she sees him. She can still see him—and nothing else in this world had haunted her than that sight did for the following years to come.

He never left.

(Somebody, anybody...! Please! Please, this is… this is not what I want… help me, get me out of here get me out of here please god please–!)

A deathly cold hand suddenly grasped her face, the nails lengthening into claws as they began digging painfully in her jaw and she quickly opened her eyes, her already scattered thoughts dispersing all at once, already aware that he had intended to feast on her neck again (again and again and again) because he had made it clear that he wanted her to look, look at me, my love look at him and only him watch him whenever he find her, kills her over and over again and she couldn’t do anything to stop him, couldn’t break away from the chains fate had tied like a noose around her bloody neck.

She was both too aware and completely disconnected from her own mind and body at this point, her eyes blown wide open but straying from him and fixating on the ceiling somewhere just above his head as the vampire began to feast on his meal once more, his hands and mouth, it was moving, he was everywhere–

(...this is disgusting all of this is disgusting but she can't get away, get away from me, get away from me, please pleasepleasepleasemakeitstop JUST MAKE IT STOP)

Absentmindedly, Winters found herself watching the tendrils of shadows above, watching it darkening across the ceiling like a spider’s web while the rest of her clothes were being torn off of her small body once more…

He cooed, holding her face.

“Don’t cry, Amara…”

...she was only fourteen years old.