The scissors sliced through my hair, each snip a tiny death, and tears streamed down my face before I could stop them.
"Why do you have to cut it?" I sobbed, voice cracking, but the woman barely glanced at me, her movements brisk, trying to hush me as if my grief were an inconvenience.
I barely registered the sound of footsteps behind me until Victor's voice, calm and commanding, filled the air.
"Leave us."
The woman hurried away, her retreating footsteps swallowed by the heavy silence.
Victor knelt in front of me, his gaze sharp yet strangely soft as he lifted my chin with delicate care.
"Don't cry," he said quietly, but his tone left no room for argument.
"This is the transformation. Everyone must endure it. It won't be easy, but compared to what lies ahead, this is the least of your worries."
I blinked away the tears, trembling under his steady scrutiny. His words sank in, strange and cold comfort.
Maybe he was right. My hair, though short now, looked different—cleaner, sharper, like it belonged to someone else entirely.
"Maybe…" I murmured, voice hoarse. "Maybe it does look better this way. Don't you think?"
A small, unreadable smile tugged at his lips as he rose, extending a hand to guide me.
"Good. Now, wash up. We have a long day ahead."
Despite the bitterness curling in my stomach, I found myself obeying, like a schoolgirl clinging to a strict teacher's every word. The pull of his control was suffocating, yet I was helpless to resist.
Changing quickly, I caught my reflection in a mirror on the way down. The roots of my hair had already turned a pale platinum white. I stared, disbelief mingling with dread. How could this be?
But then, nothing here made sense anymore. I swallowed the rising panic and told myself it was just stress. I gripped Victor's hand tightly, feeling like I was holding onto a lifeline — or a noose.
At the front door, he pulled me close without warning. His lips met mine in a fierce kiss, fingers threading through my hair so possessively I barely noticed the shadow lurking silently behind us in the dark hallway. I didn't care.
The garden beyond burst with color and life, vivid and unsettling after the stifling manor. I reached for a rose, careless, but a thorn pricked my finger sharply.
"Ouch," I whispered, watching the small bead of blood well up.
Victor was instantly by my side, his breath hot on my skin as he lifted my finger to his lips. His eyes fluttered closed, tongue tracing the wound, then snapped open, dark and hungry.
"Forgive me," he murmured, voice thick with something fierce and feral. "You're irresistible."
He pulled me toward the gazebo, where a steaming pot of tea waited. I sat, numbly obedient, as he poured and handed me a cup. The warm steam curled like a fragile promise, the liquid burning my tongue but soothing in its own strange way.
"Chamomile," he explained. "Calms the nerves. Have you chosen your bridal shower dress?"
The words hit me like a slap. "Bridal shower?" I whispered, panic threading through my voice. "I didn't know there was going to be one."
Victor's eyes locked on mine, unreadable, as he tapped his cup absently. Then, rustling from the garden's edge shattered the moment.
My heart lurched. "Theo?" I breathed, fear tightening my throat.
Victor stood instantly, a shield between me and whatever lurked.
"Stay here," he ordered, voice low and cold.
Before I could protest, an old woman stumbled from the shadows, collapsing with a sob. Her clothes were tattered, her eyes wild and desperate.
"My lord," she gasped, voice cracking, "I have served you blindly for years. Please… give me my Anett. I beg you."
Victor's tone was icy, distant.
"Diana, Anett made her choice. No one could choose for her. She's at the manor if you wish to see her."
Diana's eyes blazed with fury and pain.
"Her choice? She became a monster after everything I did to protect her?"
Victor's hand moved to my back, steady and possessive, guiding me behind him.
"No. She chose Charles. To start over. No one forced her."
Diana turned away, her footsteps heavy with rage as she stormed toward the manor.
Victor's voice was firm.
"Ayana, stay here. I'll return soon."
I watched him vanish into the trees, heart pounding wildly. The crushed brush from Diana's path formed a tempting escape route.
On impulse, I leapt over the low barrier and fled into the woods, lungs burning, legs tearing through branches. The cold night air seared my lungs as I ran without looking back, each step an act of rebellion and desperation.
After what felt like hours, I stumbled into a valley, breath ragged. Ahead stood a small black cabin, ominous against the fading dusk. The air hung heavy, thick with something watching, waiting.
I quickened my pace, but froze as I glimpsed movement through a window. The curtains were still, but something—or someone—was inside.
I swallowed the scream rising in my throat, silent now, knowing any noise could bring my capture.
Then suddenly—solid. Hard. A wall. I crashed into it, the breath knocked from me.
Victor stood before me, eyes dark pools of fury and disappointment.
Without a word, he yanked me to my feet roughly by the elbow. I trembled, pain radiating from my aching fingers, but met his gaze with all the defiance I could muster. I wouldn't be broken again.
He read my thoughts instantly.
Moving fast, he seized my left hand, holding my forefinger tight.
A snap. A scream ripped through the woods. Pain, sharp and unbearable. I begged him to stop, but his grip only tightened.
"Another?" he asked quietly.
He took my pinky next, snapping it with cruel precision despite my tears and pleas.
I collapsed, knees scraping against the stones, sobbing uncontrollably.
Victor sighed and stepped closer, fingers threading through my hair before yanking my head back to force my eyes to the sky. His touch was cold, sadistic, merciless.
"If you run again, I'll break your legs next."
He hauled me up, ignoring my cries, and dragged me back toward the manor.
When we arrived, a new group of maids rushed forward to help. Victor silenced them with a gesture.
"Ayana, bed rest for the evening. No food, no aid. You've disappointed me."
I fled, clutching my broken hand, pain flaring with every heartbeat.
That night, I cried myself to sleep, the dull ache in my fingers a constant reminder of my helplessness.
I woke, shivering and sobbing, crawling to the cold fireplace. My trembling hands managed to light a fire, the flickering flames both warmth and torment.
Under the heavy duvet, I tried not to see him sitting silently at the bed's edge, dressed only in boxers, watching. His gaze was unreadable—no anger, no kindness. Just cold observation.
My hand throbbed violently. I whimpered, unable to hide it.
Finally, he spoke.
"You're making it worse."
His voice was flat, detached, as if commenting on a broken machine, not a human being.
I flinched as he reached for me, pulling me into his lap like a fragile doll, the contact hollow and clinical.
"I told you not to run," he said, eyes fixed on my injured hand. "You disobeyed."
I wanted to scream, fight, vanish—but my body was too weak, too shattered.
Without warning, he bit his thumb until it bled, then pressed it to my lips.
"Drink."
The warm metallic taste flooded my mouth, thick and unfamiliar. A burning spread from my mouth to my fingers. Bones shifted beneath my skin with painful cracks and pops, realigning painfully but healing.
I looked up, horror flooding my face, but Victor's gaze was elsewhere—dark and unreadable.
"You break so easily," he whispered, brushing a cold hand down my cheek. "But you always come back."
He sealed the last of his blood on my lips, a promise or a curse I didn't want but couldn't escape.
Then he kissed me—no love, no tenderness, just cold dominance and possession.
Darkness swallowed me in his arms, not safety, but imprisonment.
When I woke, sunlight burned through the windows. My body ached in places I didn't understand.
Victor was gone—but his scent lingered, sharp and ancient, like a shadow that wouldn't leave.
I crawled to the bathroom, hands shaking as I faced my reflection.
Bite marks and punctures marred my neck and breasts, some healing, some raw and angry. Flashes of blood and screams shattered my mind's fragile hold.
The door creaked behind me. I shrieked and curled away, but Mirriam appeared, calm and steady despite my terror.
"Don't look like that," she said firmly. "Get in the bath. Don't let him see weakness. Clean yourself. Pull it together."
The bathwater turned pink with my blood as I soaked until the warmth faded, drowning my despair.
Mirriam gathered my bloody sheets silently, and my stomach twisted with fear and shame.
On the bed, a black dress lay waiting for dinner—another test I didn't want to face.
"Why me?" I whispered, voice raw.
She paused, then turned away, voice steady but full of sorrow.
"He loves no one else like he loves you. It's hard to accept, but it's true."
The floorboards creaked. Victor entered, unreadable and cold, the room thick with unspoken dread.