AZRAEL
Her face is whiter than the sheets; the look of fear in her eyes is especially delectable. I will enjoy breaking this one piece by piece.
"Do you like your gift, little mouse?" I taunt, watching the moisture well in her eyes, her held breath shaking.
So marvelously delectable. Though her lack of response annoys me too soon.
I seize her and drag her forward despite her struggle, my grip tightened around her neck. Then I lift the severed head higher, holding it inches from her face so she can take in every ghastly detail of her "gift."
"You couldn't finish the job," I whispered, a gentle graze of my breath on her ear. "I decided to do it for you. She could have passed more peacefully if you had done it yourself, though."
"Please, don't touch me," she finally speaks between terrified sobs, forcing a somewhat hateful gaze my way.
I keep one hand around her neck, tightening just the slightest, savoring the frantic pulse beneath my palm as I fling the severed head to the corner of her room, already bored with it and letting my eyes drink in my newest fascination.
"There you go again, speaking to your king as you please," I hummed.
With my free hand, I drag a blood-slick finger down the side of her cheek, painting a crimson streak that blooms against her fragile skin—a sweet caress stained with her tears.
Her eyes clasp shut, shaking rapidly as she tries to get away with her puny strength, but it's pointless. Her weakness leads her back to sobbing again.
"P-Please..."
"You don't tell me what I can and cannot do with what is mine," I remind her in a harsh whisper, my lips pressed against her neck, running my tongue along the vein.
I can taste the fear on her skin; it oozes off her like the sweetest wine. I wait another second before finally letting her go.
She gasps for air once my hand falls from her neck, putting more space between us. Her confidence is completely shattered, leaving a jittering, broken mess.
Still, she doesn't scream or beg for mercy. My favorite part is when they're too terrified and they start begging.
Tilting my head at the trembling girl, the next words leave my lips:
"Strip."
Her shocked eyes look up at me, still reeling from seeing a severed head for the first time.
"Don't make me repeat myself." The quiet threat is laced with a growl.
She flinches again, hesitating until her fear forces her to give in.
Slowly, she stands off the bed and peels her loose nightgown from her body, taking layer after layer off until she is fully bare, save for the bandages on her bruised body.
The bruises are like artwork: several swirling, deep purple patches painted across a lush olive background.
The first thing I notice is her severely underweight frame, with the only body fat settling at her hips and breasts.
Her bones are visibly poking through all around, and her skin shows obvious signs of malnutrition.
I don't remember Ottomar being unable to provide a meal for his daughters, but what do I bloody care?
What unsettles me most is the rush of blood that hardens my cock the instant my gaze fixates on her.
Desire strikes fast and merciless, springing hot and hungry, no matter how much I wish to deny it.
The sight of her breasts; full, tipped with dusky nipples that stiffen against the chill night air, ignites something inside me.
Or maybe it isn't the air at all, but the burn of my slow, assessing stare coaxing them tighter, prouder, as if they know they're being watched.
Whatever the cause, they leave me aching with a need I cannot name, a strange hunger I should not feel, not when it comes from this body I tell myself is grotesque yet cannot look away from.
She moves to shield bits of herself from me like a shy schoolgirl who's never even kissed a boy. Somehow, I find it even more irritating.
I seize her and drag her closer, ignoring the way her scream tears through the air. The bed dips as I push her down, and in one swift motion, I catch both her wrists and pin them high above her head.
My iron grip closes down hard around her trembling hands, locking her in place, her futile struggles only fueling the burning throb already straining in me.
The horror in her eyes returns once more as she realizes just what might happen now. She thrashes, stubborn to the end, though she must know resistance is useless.
Ah, fuck.
I watched her—every hitch of her breath, the fast pounding of her heart, the fragile mix of fear and curiosity in her eyes, the slender curves, and the faint trace of arousal drifting between us.
She was a sight to behold—one that lit a sadistic craving to have her bound and fucked to my satisfaction.
I lower myself with the slow, seductive prowl of a predator, letting the anticipation stretch between us, eyes never once leaving hers, before I press my lips to the curve of her throat.
Her skin is warm, soft, pulsing with the racing of her heart, her scent sliding into my lungs until I'm drunk on it.
I drag my tongue deliciously across the delicate line of her neck, savoring the sweetness there, the hitch of her breath, and the way the rest of her body almost betrays her.
She arches, pressing into me, a moan slipping past her lips before she can bite it back.
The sound seems to startle her, confuse her, and when her teeth catch her lip in rebellion, her gaze burns into mine, daring me to do my worst even as she trembles beneath me.
I take her challenge.
"You never answered my question. I'll admit it's left me rather peeved." Her desperate eyes meet mine again, confused, pulsing.
'What question?' they speak to me.
"Who are you?" My eyes meet hers, pointedly.
Then I lower my mouth to the delicious swell of her breast and sink my teeth into her flesh—hard enough to leave my mark, to claim what I should not.
Her sharp intake of breath trembles into a sweet shiver, her body jerking against me even as she fights to hold herself together.
Her heart pounds. Despite the breeze, beads of sweat trickle between her breasts.
She swallows hard, steadying, refusing to give me the satisfaction of her fear. Instead, she meets the pain with that infuriating defiance, temper burning in her eyes, though her pulse sings a different, wilder tune beneath my mouth.
"I am V-Val-loria Wild-derose, sixth d-daughter of Ottomar, h-head of House W-Wilderose." Her stuttering is worse, barely comprehensible. I feel her fighting the reaction, unable to understand it, refusing it altogether.
But I don't pause my... assessment of her body.
"Please stop," she begs finally through gritted teeth, daring to look at me with contempt despite her fear.
More tears well up in her eyes, lovely drops that line her lashes before trailing a path down her cheek. I give in to the temptation to taste the salty tears on my tongue—and damn me, they are divine.
"Your broken speech… is it your nature, or are you just trying to annoy me?"
"I have had a stutter since childhood," she snaps back coldly, pulling away from my touch.
Big mistake. I do not get refused.
I dig a finger right into her wound, and she screams in agony, bursting into terrified tears again—a punishment for refusing me.
"You do not fight me." My voice is deathly cold, barely containing my rising temper.
"Why are you d-doing this?" she sighs from frustration, barely able to hold back her pain. A truly mouthwatering sight.
"I don't answer your questions; you answer mine."
I take my time, letting my eyes roam over her, memorizing every inch of her body, even as I fight off the burning hunger that aches to claim her completely—to taste the soft peaks of her breasts, to lift her legs over my shoulders, taste her fear from right between her thighs, and dare her not to make a sound.
But my appetite has to wait.
It ends—at least for now—when I reach for her hand and find exactly what I've been searching for.
"Ah, there you are."
I pull her wrist between us, pressing hard enough on her pulse point before the glamour deactivates and the rose-vine mark becomes visible on her skin, curling around her wrist as though alive.
Her face turns pale white again.
"That bitch sent you, didn't she?"
"I d-don't kno-know what you're t-talking about," she denies instantly, shaking her head violently and avoiding my gaze.
My already thin patience is pulled taut.
I dive for her neck again, this time applying pressure to her throat, crushing it down until her face swells red and she desperately tries to pry my hand off.
"Don't try to act smart with me; that will get you killed even faster," I whisper low in her ear, enjoying the sounds of her choking while caressing her reddening face with avid interest.
Her face turns purple as I take in her other features more closely this time—keenly: her eyes, nose, and soft lips—recalling her speech impediment and the way she trembles over the slightest of things.
"You're not the first spy she's sent to watch me. Only this is the first time she's sent someone so… fragile and weak. Someone who's obviously a coward. Usually, it's the typical bold, outspoken girl who tries to stand out… but you… you're ordinary."
I watch her with subtle intrigue for a second longer, then let her go.
She coughs painfully, breathing through her lips, crying more bitterly before vicious eyes look at me now that I've pushed her.
Now, those blue-green eyes—like aquamarine—something about them stands out. Something... familiar. A ghost of a memory I can't quite place.
Did she send her because her eyes are pretty, or perhaps… she's gotten lazy?
I can't figure it out, but I always do eventually.
"So what did she offer you? Riches, fame, beauty? What fancied you so much to sell your life away?"
She bites her lips, turning her face away.
I chuckle lowly. Rather than be annoyed, I find it all the more amusing.
"Not going to tell me, huh? Don't worry; I will enjoy prying it out of your lips directly."
I slowly rise from her bed, putting more space between us.
"Y-You're not going to k-kill me?" Confused, bewildered eyes look at me.
"Don't be too disappointed. That, too, will come in due time."
I feel them on my back, watching me silently as I walk out the door, slamming it shut behind me.
A smile finds its way to my lips, tasting the residue of her tears and her skin on my tongue. A new feeling and desire springs up from inside me.
But my smile quickly fades the second I sense someone else in the hallway with me. My beta, Eros, emerges from the shadows, offering a bow.
"Your majesty," he greets stiffly.
I walk right past him, and he follows.
"She's another spy sent by Selene," I confirm our suspicions—another one of the many we've executed over centuries.
Her devotion to dipping her hands in my matters knows no bounds.
"Should I prepare the usual torture chamber?" he suggests, our usual go-to.
I used to enjoy those long hours of tortured cries of agony, breaking them apart down to their soul before sending them back to their precious goddess as an offering, but over time I have grown bored of that.
"No."
I ponder it for a moment, realizing how quick all of this will be. Someone like her won't live past the blood loss or last for more than a few days of torture.
And it would be over just like that again.
I smile again. The perfect idea comes to mind.
"It has been boring for the past century until the little mouse crawled in. I want to thoroughly enjoy this one before we send her back in pieces."
"Yes, sire."