In Blood by LovetheScottishAngel

Author's Note: Thanks to IAmTheMaskYouWear and Penmora Zenith for putting this story on their alert list. Additional thanks goes to IAmTheMaskYouWear for adding this story to her favorites. Then, last but not least, I want to thank The Duelist's Heiress for once again being my only reviewer for the previous chapter. I'm not going to beg for reviews, nor am I going to say that I won't update until I get reviews from other readers. But reviews are love! (If they're nice reviews, of course.)

Warnings: This chapter contains some mild violence, nonconsensual sexual content, and an extremely negative portrayal of Raoul (yes, more negative than the previous chapter). If any of these things are not to your liking, please don't read this chapter. If you choose to ignore these warnings and you read the chapter anyway and you don't like what you read, don't flame me. I'm going to the trouble to warn you in advance!

Now, without further ado…

~ o ~

What a long day, Marielle thought to herself late several nights later as she wearily entered her bedroom, closing the door with a soft click and then leaning on it for support. And I don't even know why I'm so tired… it's not as if the work I did today was any different from the work I usually do.

She glanced around her little room as she removed her shoes and stockings, letting out a soft sigh as her feet were finally able to flex and stretch. Ever since her fourteenth birthday, she had been wearing the same pair of shoes—a pair which, for several years, had been too small for her feet. On more than one occasion, she'd somewhat tentatively asked for a pair which better fit her, but the Comte had always declined her request, saying that the shoes were of a sturdy quality and that she would only receive a new pair whenever she'd worn them out. And from the look of the shoes, such an occurrence wouldn't come anytime soon, for the shoes were, indeed, built to last a long time—they didn't look much different from the day she'd received them six years previously.

Once her feet had stretched out enough to the point where they could comfortably be at their natural length, she reluctantly moved away from her comfortable position against the door, placing her shoes underneath her bed and putting her stockings in the basket where she put her dirty garments. Then she began the process of letting her hair down, removing the pins which held it up and allowing the black waves to fall just past her shoulders while she pondered upon how she felt.

For the past week or so, she'd been feeling inexplicably tired. Everything she'd done as of late had seemed to take such effort, causing her to dread even the most mundane actions of her daily routine. Upon looking at the staircase which led her to the second floor of the servants' quarters just a few minutes ago, she'd felt like she would never get to her bedroom; those stairs had seemed to stretch to infinity.

Maybe I'm getting sick, she mused as she placed her hairpins atop the armoire. Then she undid the buttons at the back of her dress, stepping out of it and hanging it up so it would air out and be ready for wearing again in two days' time. My previous illnesses, the few that I've had, have always started off with feeling more tired than usual. That's nice, I suppose, seeing as how Dr. Beaufort always tells me to have bed rest for a day or two whenever he comes to look at me when I've gotten sick. I'll soon get a chance to relax.

At that point, she divulged herself of her undergarments, dropping them into her laundry basket, and put on her white nightgown. Then she seated herself at the armoire, momentarily running her fingers through her hair before taking hold of her brush and beginning to brush her hair.

She let out a barest sigh of ecstasy as the soft bristles began running through her hair, undoing the tangles it had amassed throughout the day and making it luxuriously silky to the touch. It was somewhat strange, but she always enjoyed the feel of having her hair brushed. She supposed it was because she could remember being the age of three and still unable to brush her hair herself, thus causing her mother to have to help. The then-Vicomtesse had taken great care, brushing the entirety of Marielle's hair slowly and then, on certain occasions, dividing it into three parts and putting it into a single plait. Marielle sometimes braided her hair before going to bed at night, but somehow, it never felt quite the same as it had whenever Christine had done it.

Once she'd finished brushing her hair, it was time for the last—and, arguably, her least favorite—of her pre-bedtime activities. And so, after taking a rather deep breath, she removed her mask, gently setting it on the armoire and then inspecting her face in the mirror.

There were several reasons that, on certain occasions, Marielle didn't much care for her father—after all, he'd gotten her mother pregnant with her through rape and he'd been a criminal even before that. Her prevalent reason for not having too much regard for that man named Erik, however, was that he'd passed down his cursed face to her.

She examined her deformity in the mirror, running her fingers across the red, irregularly-formed skin with a sigh. And as she always did whenever she allowed her deformity to air out every evening, she pondered upon how much trouble her face gave her and how her situation would be at least slightly improved if she'd been fortunate enough to have a normal face.

It was no secret to Marielle that her deformity was the primary reason why the Comte deChagny so highly disliked her. Of course, he also didn't like her because she was the product of a union between his wife and another man, but she rather liked to think that he would have disliked her less if she hadn't been born deformed. And maybe, just maybe, she would have been taken into the Château deChagny as a member of the deChagny family instead of a maid…

But more than that, she thought with a sigh as she continued running her fingers along her deformity, as if that would make it go away, I would be beautiful if I wasn't deformed. Thus I would probably be allowed out of the house at least once in a while… I would meet a good man who would think me so beautiful that he'd have no choice but to make it his ultimate goal to make me his…

Marielle honestly had no interest in having a man "make her his"—that is, she didn't particularly care about becoming a man's sexual partner. From what she knew of sexual intimacy, it wasn't as wonderful or impressive as some of her fellow maids in the past had made it seem; she felt as if it was merely a way for a man to display power over a woman—and, on some occasions, a way for a man to continue his bloodline by getting a woman pregnant. She did, however, desire a man's love. She wanted to meet a man who would respect her, spend as much time as possible with her, kiss her…

Yes, kissing, she thought to herself, moving her fingers from her deformity to her lips. I don't care much about sex… but kissing seems like it would be nice.

All of a sudden, her bedroom door opened, and she immediately turned away so that the one entering her room wouldn't see her deformity, taking hold of her mask and placing it back on her face. Then she rose, keeping her back turned to he who had arrived as he closed the door.

"Monsieur le Comte," she said softly, curtsying and feeling slightly awkward while doing so because her master could, at that point, only see her from the back.

For several moments, there was a silence, but then came a harsh, simple command: "Come here."

Taking a soft, deep breath, she then turned to face Raoul, looking at him for several moments before walking over to him. She could see the outline of his erection through his bedtime trousers and felt her face heat up.

At almost the precise moment at which she arrived in front of him, he suddenly reached out and slapped her unmasked, undeformed cheek with all his might, causing her to stagger slightly in surprise.

"You made a good attempt to hide that hideous face from me," he informed her coldly as she regained her balance and placed a hand on her hot cheek. "But it wasn't good enough. How many times have I told you not to let me see what's under that mask?"

She swallowed hard, removing her hand from her cheek as she curtsied again, avoiding his steely gaze. "I'm sorry, Monsieur. I was just trying to air it out—"

"I don't care what you were doing," he interrupted her harshly. "You ought to know that you shouldn't have the mask off at half-past midnight… you know that's the time I come to you."

Before she had the chance to say anything in response, he slapped her again, the smacking sound of the cruel skin-on-skin contact resounding through the entirety of her small room. She only took one step backward before managing to catch herself this time, feeling tears of pain and embarrassment rush to her eyes.

"Je regrette, Monsieur," she whispered then. "Je regrette."

"Hmph," he grunted, folding his arms across his chest. "You have much to apologize for, don't you? Your carelessness, your face, your father's actions which brought your wretched being into this world…"

Her face grew hotter as she bowed her head as low as possible, giving him no response. In that moment, any kind thought she'd ever had about her father vanished from her head as she thought about how dearly she paid for his sins on a regular basis.

"Now," he then said, cutting into her thoughts. "On your knees."

Upon hearing this command, a lump rose in her throat. She rid herself of it with a gulp, however, and took a deep breath as she did as she'd been instructed.

Once she was on her knees, she was eye-level with his erection, and it appeared that his smacking her gotten him more aroused, for it was more obvious than it had been several moments before. And with shaking hands that she hoped he wouldn't notice, she reached out and unbuttoned his trousers, then pulled them down slightly in order to free his manhood from its confines.

At that point, she reached out once more, taking hold of his erection and beginning to pleasure him, one hand stroking him while the other one massaged, as he'd instructed her to do because that was the way he liked best.

"Ugh," he groaned, but it wasn't a groan of frustration, anger, or any other kind of bad emotion; he emitted such a noise out of perverse pleasure. "That's right… just like that…"

For several minutes, things continued in this fashion, and Marielle did her best to avoid looking at what she was doing. She was ashamed by how low she'd allowed herself to become since this torture had first begun five years earlier—and she could remember the first time the Comte had entered her bedroom, at a time which had been well past decent.

Absolutely out of nowhere, she felt something grab her shoulder in a shockingly rough fashion, jolting her awake with a slight gasp of alarm.

Once she'd gathered her nerves, she frowned a little as she made out the outline which backed several steps away from her bed and then stood before her in the darkness.

"M-Monsieur le Comte?" she whispered then. "What are you doing in here?"

"Put on your mask," Raoul responded in a rather harsh tone, not answering her query but speaking to her all the same. "I can still see your face, dark as it may be in here."

"I… I'm sorry," she said, still puzzled as to what he was doing in her bedroom at such a late hour, for she looked at the clock which hung on the nearby wall and saw that it was 12:30 in the morning. She rose from the bed, picking up her mask from the armoire and then putting it back on. "Now… why are you here at this time of night?"

"Don't question me," he snapped. "I am the master of this household; I shall do whatever I please."

"Yes, Monsieur," she replied, even more taken aback than before. "I apologize. But… has something happened?"

"Hmph. Well, I suppose something has happened, in a way. I've had a revelation." He paused. "Get back in the bed."

She did as he'd instructed, getting back on the bed and sitting up straight. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, so she could see that there was a rather strange expression on his face.

"What kind of revelation have you had, Monsieur?" she asked then, and in that moment, she began to feel an unexplainable anxiety. Why did he feel it was necessary to share his revelation with her, especially in the middle of the night?

He cleared his throat and straightened himself. "As you know, your father raped the Comtesse. That's how she got pregnant with you."

A lump rose in Marielle's throat as she bowed her head slightly. "Yes, Monsieur le Comte. I am all too aware of that fact."

"Yes. Well, I've come to realize that I haven't been able to wreak my vengeance upon your father for the crime he committed."

She nodded in a somewhat solemn fashion, understanding his need for revenge even though the action for which he wanted revenge made her embarrassed and upset. "That's understandable. After all, no one has seen him around here since he… did what he did."

"Ah, but my revelation lies in the fact that I don't need him to be around for me to avenge my wife."

Upon hearing this, she looked up at him in surprise. "You—you don't?"

"No." He began walking then, taking slow steps toward her. "I only need you."

"Me?" she echoed as he continued walking over to her, her chest tightening a bit. "But… why do you need me?"

"Because…" He came to a stop and looked at her, that strange expression still on his face. "I can't violate someone else and get revenge on Erik."

"Violate?" she exclaimed, straightening herself a bit in a gesture of surprise and alarm as a hand went to her throat. "You don't mean…"

Her voice trailed off and her face grew hot, and he responded, his voice suddenly rather low, "That is exactly what I mean. As he raped my wife… so I will rape his daughter. It's rather Biblical, don't you think?—an eye for an eye, you know."

Complete shock and embarrassment prevented her from replying. She could hardly believe the situation in which she suddenly found herself… the Comte was intending to deflower her!

When he then reached out to her, she quickly moved away, getting out of bed and standing out of his arm's reach uneasily.

"Come back here!" he snapped at her, lunging toward her. She just barely managed to dodge him, letting out a gasp as she did. "You will do this!"

"Wait!" she cried out as she continued dodging him. "Monsieur… please think about this. Do you really want to do such an awful thing? I know my father did it to my mother… but if you don't do this to me, you have the chance to prove yourself the better man!"

"I am the better man," he snarled, suddenly grabbing hold of her and practically throwing her onto the bed. It was then that he slapped her for the first time, doing it so hard that he nearly knocked the wind out of her. "And don't you dare think otherwise!"

Tears of pain from his violence welled in her eyes. "I—I don't, Monsieur, I don't… but please… please don't do this. If you stop now, I won't tell Madame la Comtesse… she'll never know you were even here!"

"She'll never know, anyway," he growled, stopping her in another attempt to get off the bed by pinning her down with his body, and she shivered at the new and unwanted contact. "If you don't let me do this… or if you tell anyone… you'll be thrown out of this house before you can even blink. And where will you go then, hmm?"

"You—you wouldn't," she whispered in terror, a lump rising in her throat as the tears in her eyes threatened to spill out even more. "You wouldn't make me leave!"

"Try me." The challenge was cold, emotionless, and it was then that she realized he wasn't bluffing.

At this revelation, she knew that she was trapped—she had to let him do with her what he pleased and she had to keep it secret. For she couldn't risk being thrown out of the Château deChagny; after all, it was the only home she had ever known and she couldn't think of anywhere she'd be able to go if the Comte threw her out.

Thus she made no movement and no sound, simply lying there and waiting for him to move forward with his vengeance against the father she'd never known.

Upon realizing that he'd won, he moved off her and stood up, a cruelly triumphant grin on his face. "Undress."

Swallowing hard, she rose from the bed herself and removed her nightgown, noticing with dismay and embarrassment that he was taking off his nightclothes as well. She felt her face grow almost unbearably hot and knew that she was blushing violently—after all, she'd never seen a naked man before, even in pictures.

Once they'd both undressed, they stood in front of each other completely naked for several moments. Raoul scanned his stepdaughter up and down, his sick smile widening as he did, and Marielle's humiliation increased when she saw his manhood quickly go from flaccid to erect.

"Well, your face may be ugly, but your body is very much a different story!" he informed her with a laugh, shoving her back onto the bed. He then climbed atop her, and she whimpered at the feel of his nude body against hers. "Just the sight of you tells me that you're going to please me…"

Naturally, Marielle had hoped that the next action to be done would be his taking her, but such a wish was futile. He instead placed his hands on her, running them up and down every inch of her body, paying particular attention to her breasts, her thighs, and the secret spot between them.

When his hand first went between her legs, she let out a long, shuddering breath, her face feeling as if someone had poured gasoline onto it and then put a flame to it. She'd heard from "experienced" maids that women were supposed to feel pleasure whenever men touched them in such an intimate place, but to her, such a thing didn't feel good at all. The only thought in her head was that she wanted him to finish with her and leave.

After several minutes of exploring the new terrain of her body, he removed his hands from her, and she felt him position himself at her entrance. And then, with no warning whatsoever, he entered her in one sharp thrust.

She cried out rather loudly, the pain of his breaking her virginal barrier hitting her full-force, and was almost immediately greeted by his smart blow to her good cheek.

"Hush, stupid girl!" he hissed, sounding as if he was snarling. "You'll wake up the entire house making noise like that."

"I—I'm sorry," she whimpered, tears beginning to roll down her face. "It hurts…"

"Well, of course it does," he replied in an it's-so-obvious tone, thrusting inside of her and causing her to wince. "A woman's first experience is always painful."

The maids lied, then, she thought to herself as he continued thrusting, gritting her teeth in order to stop herself from making any kind of noise which expressed discomfort. They said it would feel good if the man did a good job… they lied about all of it…

After several minutes, he groaned and she felt his member harden and expand inside of her, and the new feeling made her whimper in both discomfort and anxiety. What did that mean?

Marielle was abruptly pulled out of her reverie when Raoul suddenly slapped her, causing her both to jolt and to feel a stinging pain on her unmasked, undeformed cheek.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice somewhat hoarse with arousal. "You're supposed to have moved on to the next part by now!"

Looking down, she saw that his seed had begun to leak from the tip of his manhood and swallowed somewhat hard. Yes, she was supposed to move on to something different whenever he got that aroused…

She let out the softest sigh possible, then reluctantly leaned forward and slowly took him into her mouth, inwardly cringing at the salty taste of his arousal on her tongue. He moaned and shuddered, taking tight hold of her hair as he thrust once into her mouth.

Keeping her eyes closed so she wouldn't have to look at what she was doing, she sucked on the hard proof of his arousal. She somewhat wished the Comtesse would walk in right then—although, knowing her luck, the older woman would only think that Marielle had initiated these nighttime atrocities instead of accusing her husband of being inappropriate toward the masked young woman.

Raoul grew more aroused by her actions, as he was supposed to, and once she'd pleasured him in this way for several minutes, he moaned once more, retightening his grip on her black waves and continuously thrusting into her mouth, causing her to further take him in. She could feel him hardening in her mouth and knew that it wouldn't be long before he experienced his first orgasm of the evening.

"Oh, God… oh, God…" the Comte moaned, thrusting so vigorously that he almost kept setting off Marielle's gag reflex due to how far in he was making himself go. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, silently willing herself not to choke, as doing such would only result in more hitting.

It only took a few more rough thrusts before he came with a moan, his warm seed spilling into Marielle's mouth and traveling to the back of her throat. Marielle kept him in her mouth and held her breath, as she'd learned that doing such would prevent her from gagging—for the first time he'd imposed this particular torture on her, she'd learned the hard way that whenever he finished, she wasn't permitted to let his seed go anywhere except her mouth, nor was she allowed to choke on it. She remembered how severely he'd slapped her when she'd made her mistakes… she'd felt the pain from it even the next day.

When he'd finished emptying himself into her mouth, she took his now-flaccid manhood out of her mouth, swallowing down his seed and then slowly rising to her feet. She saw that his brown eyes were clouded with lust.

"Take that nightgown off," he ordered her, his voice low and somewhat frightening. "Now."

She nodded silently, taking a soft, deep breath as she pulled off her nightgown, lifting it over her head and then releasing her hold on it, allowing it to fall to the floor.

He roughly pushed her onto the bed, removing his own nightclothes in a messy and hurried fashion. Then he joined her on the bed, growling with newfound desire at the sight of her full, round breasts, narrow hips, and shapely thighs. What he'd told her five years earlier was right—although many people wouldn't find her face aesthetically pleasing, any man who wouldn't be attracted to her body would either be blind or homosexual.

The nobleman wasted no time in moving forward with what he wanted, thrusting his newly-hardened manhood inside of her in an abrupt and surprisingly painful fashion. Then he immediately began thrusting, taking tight hold of her chin when he saw that she was trying to look away from what was happening.

"Look at me," he hissed, turning her face so that their eyes met.

Without a word and with a hard swallow, she did as he instructed and kept her gaze fixated on him, trying to keep her expression from indicating that he was giving her any kind of discomfort. For she knew that when he had her look at him, he was trying to see any unhappy face she might make; he got a certain kind of satisfaction from knowing that what he did to her bothered her.

She silently observed him for the next several minutes as he continued moving about inside of her, watching his face contort into several different pleasured expressions. She felt his member begin swelling inside of her and knew that he was getting close to reaching his climax.

"Ohh… yes!" he groaned at last, emitting a long sigh as he released his seed within her.

Upon feeling his release, she involuntarily cringed, and though he was cloudy-headed with pleasure, he saw it and laughed, for he knew what it meant.

"Didn't like that, did you?" he inquired, not really expecting a response and thus not feeling disappointed when she didn't say anything. Then he moved away from her, throwing her nightgown to her and beginning to redress himself.

Marielle took hold of her nightgown and quickly pulled it over her head, covering herself up once more, and then got back in bed, burrowing herself under the covers. She turned on her side so that she could no longer see him, avoiding the lustful gaze which remained upon her while he wordlessly pulled his nightshirt back on.

Relief filled her to the brim as the sound of her door opening and closing reached her ears. She remained still, however, until the sound of his footsteps moving away from her bedroom grew so faint that she could no longer hear them.

Silent tears began rolling down her cheeks at that point, and she sniffled softly as she buried her face against her pillow. And just as she had most every night during the five years that she'd been abused in such a manner, she felt completely miserable.

If only I were beautiful, she thought to herself sadly. The Comte might still do this to me, but at least then I would likely be permitted to go out of the house… and if that were allowed, there would come a day when I'd leave the Château and never, ever come back. Someone—I don't know who, but someone—would be willing to take me in. But I'm not beautiful… so I'll never be allowed to leave… and even if I did leave, I'd have nowhere to go… no one would be willing to help someone with a face like mine.

With these thoughts in her head, the masked young woman cried softly into the early hours of the morning, only finding solace when her tired mind and body finally gave themselves over to the world of sleep.