I am scrubbed clean and then pushed into a tub of saffron and milk without even a moment of privacy. From the plucking of every strand of hair on my skin to my privates to measuring my waist's width and the curve of my hips.
Queen Samara, who had been the youngest of the King's wives before the attack on the royal family that killed nine of King Oberon's son and his wives, now stands with her chin high and her red slitted gaze peering me down her nose with an aura of superiority she never used to possess.
A year ago, she was at the bottom of the court. The princess no one deferred to. She was Ruin's aunt, but another one of King Oberon's many wives in a harem that never ceased to end.
Somehow, she's risen high enough to have been named Queen, while her nephew now poses to be King.
It was clear as day, if you asked me. That Queen Samara and Prince Ruin killed out the rest of the competition to the throne.
"Ruin is used to thinner limbs," she says, voice hard and cruel. "But I do suppose your kind is built this way for childbirth." She cocks her head, her glossy blonde hair flowing down her shoulders, halting just below hips. "A schedule will be fixed for the royal consummation every month..."
Her voice trails off and she looks over at the acolyte huddled in the corner, her gaze fixed to the ground as she trembles in unmistakable fear. "Read it to her, Danika."
The acolyte, Danika, nods and she shuffles forward. "The best times for conception, from the data we received from your mother on your monthly cycle, and considering how swiftly you took in for the late crown prince..." Her voice falters and she looks to Samara in fear, like she half-expects the woman to hit her. "T-that would be t-the fifteenth to the nineteenth of each month."
Queen Samara nods and I flinch when she moves with liquid grace, pressing her fingers to my bare stomach. "For four nights every month, you will serve the Prince. Keep him happy. And he will reward you with his seed."
"Reward me?" I ask, and my head snaps to the side abruptly, as she slaps me.
My vision swirls immediately and blood pools in my mouth and my fingers fly to my cheek, just to make sure something isn't broken. I can't feel my jaw.
"You do not speak unless spoken to," Queen Samara says, rolling her wrist.
My blood heats with anger. "Lay your hand on me again--"
Her palm slams into my cheek with enough force that I stumble against the wet bathroom floor and my head narrowly misses cracking open against the tub.
She raises her hand to hit me again but the acolyte releases a sigh of distress. "Your Majesty, the Prince will not like this very much." When she has the Queen's attention, she adds, "He likes them undamaged. Just so he can do it himself. For the sake of the consummation, you must hold back on disciplining her."
Queen Samara considers this and lowers her hand. But her maroon eyes pin me to the ground. Her fangs brush against her lower lip in a soft caress as she says, "Yes. It is a reward indeed. You serve as the breeder of the last heir of the Ivashkov line. We are the oldest, the first of our kind to walk this world. It is an honour to be the vessel."
Her blood red lips curl. "In my time, there were conquests held, a choosing of who could roll in the sheets with such a man of statue, who could make our lord's cold blood run hottest. Be glad you got lucky, girl. Many will kill for the opportunity, and make no mistakes. These walls are not your home. You will always be in danger here. Of being discarded, killed, by those who do not see you fit--which at the moment, is every Vampyr within these walls."
She leans over me and I catch a whiff of strong perfume. "I suggest you do your part as swiftly as you can before you become another one of the ghosts hunting Castle Ivashkov."
I swallow the words on my tongue as pain pounds against my skull. What exactly is my part? Spreading my legs for four days every month? How many sons would be enough? Three? Five? Ten? It'll never end.
I'm going to die here. I don't want to die here. I don't want to bed Ruin. I don't want to be here.
Queen Samara crouches before me and wicked nails dig into my chin as she jerks my face forward. "As you already know, Ruin has a terrible temper. The odds are he kills you tonight out of mere displeasure." She giggles. "Then, we'll just marry him to one of your sisters."
My eyes widen with horror. "No--"
"Then you understand why it is important that you survive tonight," she coos like I am a wailing child. Her fingers caress my cheeks and I hate that it is somewhat soothing, bewitching in the way all Vampyrs are. "It will hurt. The pain brings him glee. It is important that you do not try to bear it. The louder you scream, the quicker he'll finish. Do you understand what I am telling you, Genevieve?"
I find myself nodding. My body has begun to tremble. It is sinking in. The helplessness. The fear. It is choking me alive.
"Do not talk back. Do not even speak to him. Do not look him in the eye. Do not..."
She drones on and on, rules upon rules. Too many of them, while my mind begins to spiral on the best way to escape this. If there is an escape.
"Get her ready," she orders.
And the maids come from everywhere, dragging me along. I beg, even when I know I shouldn't. I ask for time. Minutes. To think. To decide. To buy my mind time to come to terms with what is about to happen to me.
But they don't give me any of that.
In no time, I am dressed in a translucent chemise of red with nothing underneath. Nothing. It is held together with one flimsy rope. One tug and I am naked.
My hair is straightened once again. Kohl is painted around my eyes and my lips are colored with blood. Real blood. My pulse points are dusted with dried, perfumed blood. To quicken his lust, they said.
I am a lamb headed towards slaughter.