Santos tossed her aside.
The one on her knees was crying freely now, face wet with tears and spit, but she begged to keep going. She dragged her lips down his length again and again, gagging, moaning, desperate to please him.
When his hand pulled too hard at her hair, she whimpered—but then moaned louder, as if the cruelty itself made her crave him more.
The third kissed hungrily at his bloody mouth, licking the mess from his chin, sucking the taste of her sister's life right from his lips. She groaned like it was wine, grinding herself against his thigh, frantic with need.
They were bound to him now. Each mouthful of blood, each drop of saliva shared, tangled them tighter.
Their bodies arched and bucked not because they wanted to—but because they couldn't not.
He had taken their will.
Their lust was no longer their own.
Santos knew it. That was why he smiled so cruelly as he let them writhe, as he toyed with their bodies like marionettes.
He pinched a nipple until the woman screamed, only to watch her cry harder when he released her.
He forced the one at his lap down against his chest, fangs still embedded, while she moaned so loudly it echoed through the whorehouse walls.
They were addicted. Already broken.
Once tasted, they would crawl back to him every night, begging for another drop. Their thighs would tremble, their throats ache for his bite, their lips ache for his command.
Santos groaned low, voice rough and mocking, as he let his head fall back and dragged his tongue across the blood-streaked swell of the woman's breast.
"Mortals," he muttered, cruel laughter breaking from his throat. "So easy to ruin. So easy to own."
And still they moaned, begged, clung, lost to the frenzy of his hunger.
Santos shoved the woman off his lap, her body trembling and slick with heat, and dragged another onto him.
She gasped as his fangs grazed her throat, but before she could beg, he tore her gown down the middle. The silk fell in rags at his feet.
She cried out, but not from fear. Her legs wrapped around his waist like a trap.
With no warning, he thrust into her—hard, brutal, claiming her as if she was nothing more than a vessel.
The sound that tore from her throat was half scream, half moan, her nails raking deep into his back.
He didn't slow. Every snap of his hips was a punishment and a reward, his cock filling her so deep she arched and sobbed.
Blood ran from her neck where his fangs pierced again, mixing with sweat, with tears, with the heat of their bodies grinding together.
The others moaned and writhed around them, touching themselves, licking the blood from the floor, desperate to be next.
But Santos only cared for the one clinging to him now—wringing pleasure and torment out of her in equal measure.
Her cries grew higher, broken, her body shuddering on the edge of release.
He pinned her throat with his hand, choking her just enough to make her fight for breath, and whispered against her lips:
"Say it. Say you're mine."
Her answer was a sob, a whimpering plea—"Yours… yours…"—before her whole body convulsed, release ripping through her as his fangs sank deep and his thrusts grew merciless.
The chamber echoed with the sound of her orgasm, of his low growl, of flesh slapping and blood dripping, until she collapsed boneless in his arms.
Santos laughed, sharp and cruel, before shoving her aside like broken glass and licking the blood from his lips.
"Who's next?"
†‡†‡†‡
The donkey slowed at last, hooves dragging as though the poor beast shared her exhaustion.
Aeryl slid off its back, knees buckling as her boots hit the forest floor.
Her chest rose and fell in sharp bursts, the ache in her lungs clawing for air.
Myrrh gave a bark.
"Shhh, Myrrh," she whispered, stroking the donkey's damp neck. Her palm lingered, trembling from both fear and relief. "You did well. You did so well."
She fished into her satchel with shaking hands and pulled out a small pouch of treats—dried apples, crushed oats, a morsel of meat.
Myrrh nudged eagerly, chewing with soft snorts that made her smile despite herself.
For the first time since the shouting, the torches, her father's furious voice tearing through the night, silence wrapped around her.
She glanced around the clearing.
A ragged tent leaned against the trees, its canvas patched and fraying at the seams. Abandoned, maybe by traders or hunters. It wasn't much, but it was shelter.
Her heart thudded slower now. Hope crept back in, fragile and trembling, but real.
"Just a little while," she murmured, half to herself, half to Myrrh. "We'll rest here until dawn. Then… then we'll think."
She pressed her hand to the flap of the tent and tugged.
The fabric creaked.
†‡†‡†‡
Far closer to the village gate, the night trembled with a different sound—panic made flesh.
Dozens of men rushed from the palisade, torches clutched high, armor clattering. Their breaths came ragged, frantic, as they scoured the road for the trail their master demanded.
"Faster!" one barked, glancing back toward the manor. "He wants her found before the hour turns!"
But the pounding of boots faltered as the carriage appeared.
Black. Enormous.
Its lacquered sides shimmered faintly with runes of silver that caught the torchlight and seemed to burn.
Horses darker than pitch snorted clouds into the cold, their eyes gleaming faintly silver.
The men froze.
One torch fell from a hand and guttered out in the dust.
A ripple passed through them, instinctive as a shiver of prey. Then, as one, they dropped to their knees.
The weight of the night pressed heavier, as though the very forest bowed with them.
The carriage rolled forward slowly, deliberate, the sigil carved into its door catching the glow: an ancient crest, sharp-edged and cruel, marking it undeniably as belonging to the vampire court.
The air itself seemed to thicken.
One of the men dared to lift his head.
From one stallion, a pair of pale eyes regarded them—calm, cold, infinite. The gaze alone made his throat constrict.
A voice, low and smooth as smoke, slipped out.