"I hear he was so repulsed by her, he couldn't have been bothered to touch her."
The insults only grow louder and bolder as I am led down the hallway for breakfast with the king. Chittering laughter. They say I must be less than a dog for that is the lowest Prince Ruin has stooped in his feeding.
They speak like I am some kind of failure, a reject, and I should leap off the balcony and die because the Prince didn't touch me.
Relieved as I am that last night didn't happen, I know it is only a matter of time before it does. If Queen Samara was right, then my life here depends heavily on getting pregnant.
I came to this conclusion after crying my well of tears dry last night. Hot-headed I may be, but when I'm calmer, I think things through.
Right now, there is only one option left to me. Escape this hell hole. But escaping only means one of my sisters ends up back here. Another precious lamb for slaughter.
But their weddings are fixed for the end of next month. Once they are wedded to their prospective Alphas, only then would it be safe to run without worrying about them. Which inadvertently led to my conclusion.
I have to keep Prince Ruin out of my bed for two months and still retain my relevance, lest I am killed off or thrown out before time.
How hard can that be?
"Ah," Queen Samara says when my heels click against the polished marbles of the large dining chamber. "She finally joins us. Where is your husband?"
King Oberon sits at the head of the table, cutting into his bloodied steak without vigor. He looks paler than he was yesterday and half attentive.
There are guests around the long table, most of which are distant relatives of the Ivashkov's. King Oberon's sister, Princess Dahlia, her husband, Sebastian, and their sons and daughters occupy the left half of the table. Even if the Vampyr King died, Princess Dahlia's family will not be getting a lick of his crown. Females are hardly recognised in the succession as heirs. Perhaps, that is why she has that ugly, perpetual sneer on her face.
And that is possibly why she's unable to stand me. Knowing that whatever child I bear will have more right to the throne than any of hers, who are far older than me.
On the King's right, there's Prince Mikhail. The King's only living brother. Another bitter man. He might have received the throne after the King's death if King Oberon hadn't castrated him for raping one of his wives.
It was a private affair, but rumors spread like wildfire. Still, I couldn't tell which was more bizarre. That, or the fact that his wife, Shalia, has two sons that bear his name. Two bastards, like everyone tends to call them, because... well, it is obvious from their ginger heads and pale eyes that they weren't of Ivashkov blood.
There are two empty seats by the upper left of the table. One of which I assume to be mine. Prince Ruin is noticeably absent, which brings me back to Queen Samara's question.
"I don't--"
Princess Dahlia titters softly. "Oh, Samara. You ask a little bunny where her fox might be. Of course, she doesn't know." Onyx black eyes latch onto me. "Run along, bun. He prefers the company of those human whores he keeps in Ceaser's study. Go fetch him. Food's getting cold."
When I don't move immediately, thinking she can't possibly be serious, asking me to go fetch the Prince from his activities of sodomy in my dead mate's study, Queen Samara arches a perfect eyebrow. "Well?"
I hide my shaking fingers in the train of my gown and turn around on even shakier legs.
I know the way to the study. I've been there with Ceaser so many times, I can find my way up the staircases with my eyes closed.
The world blurs around the edges as I near the familiar oak door. Tall. Imposing. It feels like an entire lifetime away when he'd pull me in there during the revelry to get me away from the parties, and we'd curl up on the couch together, watching some stupid movie that always ended up with my legs resting over his shoulders and his soft laughter echoing between my legs.
Grief is like an illness that never quite goes away. There's an anvil on my chest, choking me. Worsening with every step I take, and when I finally reach the door, I sway slightly.
An arm reaches for me, catching me before I fall and I look up to find the guard that had been trailing me all morning. "Are you alright, Your Highness?" He looks worried. The longer I stare at him, the more I notice he isn't a Vampyr.
He must see the confusion on my face because he withdraws his fingers almost immediately. "I am Constantine. Your father, the King, has assigned me to your private guard. I only arrived this morning."
Not a private guard. Just another eye to ensure I was doing what I was supposed to.
I straighten with a nod and reach for the door handle. Moans echo from the other side of the door, causing me to hesitate.
"If I may," the guard says. "You do not have to go in there yourself."
I stare at him. And past him. Guests and servants walk by, dawdling, waiting for the moment I walk in on my now husband with someone else while he hadn't even deemed me fit for the same treatment.
If I turn away, they'll talk about it. They'll exaggerate and say I ran away, crying. They may call me a mutt, or a dog, but one thing I'm not is a coward.
Ignoring the guard, I twist the doorknob and walk in.
And the sight that greets me is much, much worse.
There are writhing bodies everywhere. A man is sprawled across Ceaser's desk, his cock being sucked by another man. A maid kneels on the couch, her skirt hiked high and her shirt undone, breasts cupped and being sucked into the mouth of the Vampyr in front of her, while her head drops back against the other male behind her. They're both inside her at the same time.
There's an unmoving woman on the floor, her skin pale and her throat torn open. She might be dead.
My breath leaves me in heavy exhales. I want nothing more than to turn around right now, find the nearest bathroom and hurl up my guts. But I have to see this through. I will not be mocked for the Prince's sins.
The connecting door to Prince Ceaser's bedroom that used to be hidden behind his shelf has been thrown open, the bedroom inside utterly violated, like Prince Ruin has made it his hobby to shit on every memory of his oldest brother. And mine. Because I had memories here, too.
On the sheets, there are three naked women, connecting in a string of scissoring and eating each other out. Prince Ruin sits on the chaise, his fingers digging deep into a woman's skull as he pushes her head up and down his cock so harshly, she's weeping.
He watches the women on the bed, all lean, tall and graceful, all of them, maids. The woman sucking him off is the acolyte from our wedding. The one named Danika. Her fingers are between her legs, thrumming against the apex of her thighs as she bobs her head against him, whimpering, body tightening with gasps.
Prince Ruin looks bored.
The moment I walk past the threshold, however, eyes of blood stained sapphires find my face and the world blurs into a faded distance.
The Prince grips the acolyte's head tighter. His lips part ever so slightly. His gaze runs across my face, down my neck, down to the decent neckline of my gown and further down to my waist, my hips, my toes. And then, they lift to the spot below my belly.
Like he can see through my dress. Like he can see past my lacy white panties. He licks his lips and raises his eyes back to mine.
Prince Ruin's hips rise and his brows furrow in concentration, on my face, as he begins thrusting into Danika's throat viciously.
I stand, frozen to the threshold, as his thrusts grow erratic.
In the coming hours and days, I will ask why I didn't turn around and flee while the man was raping my mind. Because there's no other term for what he did. His eyes never left my face. I see it the second his eyes heat. The moment his veins pulse. The moment he fists the base of his cock and pulls it out of her mouth, releasing his 'precious seed' all over her face.
And when she whimpers, flicking out her tongue to collect the drops, he slaps her hard enough to make me jump.
Her head slams into the couch and I expect her to cry. I expect her to scramble away from him. But she crawls right back to him on her hands and knees, salivating and pleading for him to release inside her.
Without taking his eyes off me, he cups her cheeks tenderly and murmurs, "It isn't yours to swallow."
It is then my body jerks into movement, the thought of breakfast completely forgotten as I finally give in to the urge to flee.