Bela Dimitrescu can't get the image of Erika carrying a fully grown boar out of her head. She'd been jaded out of her mind trying to talk to this nobleman's son when Erika had walked in. The creature had to be male, given how much bigger he was than Erika, but she carried it like a soldier would a comrade.

And when she said hello . . . it took everything Bela had not to just slice the suitor's throat and take Erika right there on the tiled floor.

Instead, she's stuck here with this stupid suitor and his bastard of a father for lunch while Erika is somewhere off meeting with her mother likely. Bela's cheeks hurting from smiling so much, her throat aching from laughing and trying to seem interested in whatever the hell they're talking about.

Gods, she's been entertaining this grotesque manthing for the better part of two weeks now. Being the son of a nobleman leaves little to be desired, little to be interested in. Not when he keeps babbling about himself and his incoming inheritance, or how lucky Bela is to have his attention, as his father had many, many, many women lined up for him to try and marry. He's already talking about their future and how many children he wants, and the meals he'd like to have when he comes home.

Her mother owes her ten-fold for this stupid arrangement. What started as a simple plan to kill the man and use his blood in her wine has turned into means of gathering his inheritance – and then having him die of "sickness." As to avoid suspicion upon the Dimitrescu family.

With a man of his attention span and ego, a marriage proposal can't be far behind. His father seems just as blind and sexist; remarrying no less than a month after his son's biological mother died of illness.

Pigs. The lot of them.

It's men like them that help ease the guilt of the lives she's taken. Made more so when their blood actually tastes better than she expects.

She wishes she could tell Erika – she'd seen the hurt in the woman's eyes when Bela first strolled in the main hall with him. And the endless dinners and nights that she had to 'entertain' him while he was present in the castle were becoming too much to bear. At this rate she won't even make it to the proposal without ripping his heart out.

Bela wishes she could be with Erika, especially since Cassandra seems eager to start training with her, for whatever fucking reason.

Her fork gives the quietest whine as she bends it forward. Neither of the men seem to notice, so she quickly drops it beneath the table and snatches another one from the son. Gods, she can't even remember his name. She wishes her mother was here to help carry the conversation, since she and this man's father need to discuss the arrangements for their engagement.

The son's hand brushes her knee underneath the table, the touch brimming with intent. Bela keeps her face neutral, bored – not only to play into the son's games, but because she is genuinely trying not to snap the man's fingers off.

She only spares a brief glimpse at the son's face. He answers with a lift of his brows.

Gods, she dreads the idea of having to get in bed with him again. He's just . . . boring. And the fact that he believes her moans and breathless orgasms speaks enough.

She's going to enjoy his screams once they get him down into the dungeons. She might just tell Cassandra to go wild.

The door to the kitchen opens and that red-haired girl – Gretta – steps out with a large, circular tray balanced on her shoulder. Atop it is an array of desserts and wine glasses – the bottle sitting at the center of the tray.

She spares a polite nod towards Bela and the guests, and Bela can see both son and father eyeing the girl. And with a chest that size, at that age . . . Bela can see pieces of her dress clinging to her underarms where she attempted to tape them down.

The girl skillfully and deftly places the tray and sets about the dessert plates and glasses, having even brought them some teacups. She keeps her gaze averted – either because she's intimidated by the men, or because she fears of treading into Bela's 'territory.'

Regardless, she sets the plates about, and then spreads the desserts. The father says something to her, and Gretta nods and gives a polite response. But Bela can see a muscle feather in the girl's jaw.

Such a difference from when she and a few other maids set eyes on the suitor – their eyes practically bulged, and their tongues rolled to the floor. Bela assumes it's because there haven't been many men allowed entry into the castle – even she had to admit she was losing touch of what their blood smelled like.

But this Gretta girl, she is sharp – grounded despite her chipper demeanor, Bela had to give her that. And within minutes of serving the man and his son, Bela saw that innate, feminine attraction to the man melt off the girl's face. She knows what kind of men they are, and knows enough to stay well away.

Probably the only times the maidens were pleased to be working here at the castle – as there is no chance that these men will even lay a finger on them. Not without it being chopped off.

"Thank you, dear." Bela says, sparing the girl from having the men know her name, and asking about her.

Gretta seems to understand this, as her crystalline eyes sparkle for a moment before bowing into a low curtsey and leaving.

No girl needs to die at the hands of some inflated pig – and yes, perhaps Bela is trying to keep her safe for Erika's sake. With that wild anger of hers, Bela would hate – but would secretly love – to see what she would do to the men if they even thought about hurting Gretta.

The son's hand begins to move on her knee again, and this time she can feel it trailing up her thigh towards the apex. Bela clamps her knees shut, biting back her retort – knowing the son assumes she's playing coy. Bela crosses her legs, pinching the son's fingers enough that he removes his fingers, but the grin on his lips is, devious.

Bela keeps her content smile, nothing more than a lifeless doll as she watches the father begin to pour the wine.

Bela takes a deep breath, knowing her time is coming.

She can only hope that Gretta doubled the amount of poison in the wine – just out of spite for the men. Not enough to kill, but to make them horrible bedridden.

This is the ticking clock that Bela wishes she could just end.

They need to make it look like the men died of natural causes – avoid suspicion of any living relatives. Oh, perhaps they weren't used to cuisine of this region. Or perhaps they contracted an illness from the village. So terrible.

Bela argued that Mother Miranda would – and should – keep them safe from any outsiders. She has the power. It would be simple. But her mother only argued that the priestess' power is only to be used to emergencies, as established by the bitch herself. And yet she has time to stalk and plot to get Erika for her own nefarious purposes.

Whatever. They're going for a tour of the village tomorrow, and that'll be a good time to further the plan. Worst comes to worst, they'll just forge a letter telling the man's contacts that they are on their way home, and something terrible happened then. No one in the village will argue, especially if they send the men's carriage out through the village, just for show.

But for now, Bela is stuck playing the wooden-headed ninnies she despises, leaving the poison to do its job until further notice from her mother. And once they have the men's money in their coffers.

The father lifts his glass and the three of them make a toast. Bela drinks it – fighting the curl in her lip at the bitter taste, like bitter, berry-flavored cough syrup. It won't hurt her – nothing can hurt her, but the taste is atrocious.

And within minutes of devouring a delicious piece of chocolate-peanut-butter cake, the son's hand retracts, and he excuses himself to the bathroom.

The father follows a minute after.

I drew myself a cold bath and dangled my ass over the inner edge for the better part of a half hour, letting the water envelop the raw, red skin. It tingled and bit, like a winter's chill, creating goosebumps that only made it sting worse – but I got through it, also dipping in a washcloth to rest on my cheeks. Thank gods I have my own private bathroom. I couldn't bear doing this had I'd been in that shared, rectangular room beneath the castle.

By the time I leave the bathroom, it's a quarter to ten at night. I can partially sit on my ass once more; the process of sitting down just has to be very slow.

The coffee table poised atop the bearskin rug still holds my dessert tray that I'd ordered, the batch of fresh brownies likely still warm thanks to the fire. I pluck another piece and savor the delicious chocolatey taste, complimented by the sprinkling of powdered sugar on top.

I have another one, downing it with the small pitcher of water I'd been left as well.

Then another. And then another.

Gods, I haven't had such sweets in a while. Lacy and I have such a sweet tooth it's laughable. Anything sweet and sugary, we'd find it. I still remember the time when our father had to hide the cookie jar in such unlikely places because I'd always find it – sparing two each for Lacy and I. Luiza always made the best cakes and pies – as I eat another brownie, I remember the cakes she would bake for Lacy and I's birthdays, that butterscotch frosting so delectable.

I wonder what she's doing now. I wonder what Lacy is doing now – I miss her so much, but I've been doing better than I've ever expected. Though my life is still on the line, and could end at any moment, to know that my sister and Luiza are safe and properly cared for, it's such a weight that feels lifted off my shoulders.

I chug another glass of water before meandering over to my bed, snuggling beneath the sheets, feeling content to just lay in the warmth. I bury into the pillows, feeling a smile on my face.

I haven't been this relaxed since . . . since I was born. My father would always fill my day with activities as means to dispel my energy, regardless of what Donna thinks he was trying to contain. To suppress. My mother would use any open time to fill with lessons to turn me into a proper lady.

Now that I'm on my own, and Lacy provided for, I almost don't know what to do with myself despite my full work schedule. Even now as I lay in bed, I think back to how all such time went into preparations for tomorrow: cooking or preserving any meats and foods we had, preparing pelts for trade, readying Lacy for bed, readying my own meals to eat during my hunts, occasionally checking on my mother to make sure she was still alive. I never had any time to myself until now.

What cruel irony.

And as I lay in bed, staring up at the ornately embroidered dome of emerald-green fabric, I realize I'm not going to be able to fall asleep. And an orgasm isn't going to help either. Sitting up, I throw the blankets off, and tread towards my wardrobe. I've every book Bela made available to me, so perhaps a stroll around the castle might tire me out.

I settle on a cotton robe to pull over my nightgown, the full-length skirt helping in keeping my feet warm, so I forgo wearing slippers. The idea is rather unnerving, but it's not like I'd be caught in a lie. Besides, the castle is huge.

What are the chances of me running into Lady Dimitrescu or her daughters this late at night? They have to sleep too . . . right?

I try not to think about who Bela might be sharing her bed with at the moment.

Opening my door, I peer out into the dimly lit hallway. The castle feels so different at this hour, almost as if it has breathed a sigh of relief at the end of a day, and is now enjoying the quiet to itself. Though there is the occasional whisper of wind through the halls, and the popping of wood like stiff joints, I can't really hear the sound of footsteps in any direction.

Maybe just a quick trip to the kitchen for some warm milk, and I'll head back to my room. If the trek doesn't really relax me, maybe the milk will.

Stepping out into the hall, I sigh as my feet pad along the plush rug running the length of the hall. I can still feel the bite of the cold wood beneath it. Wrapping my robe tighter around myself, I follow the turns that lead me to the main hall of the castle. While the rest of the castle is dim, this hall remains as bright as it would during the day – the giant tiered chandelier never once dimming its flames for anyone. Or people are just too lazy to try. The roaring fire an ever reliant source of warmth.

I follow the stairs down, allowing myself a little bit of child's play as I descend; picking up the skirt of my nightdress as if it were a ballgown and swaying it this way and that. Even doing a little twirl once I reach the bottom.

Honestly, I could dance here – in this solitude. Just like I did during those dark nights in my family's backyard. I could dance until my heart's content, or until the call of dawn pulls me back to my bed.

I allow myself a bit of freedom as I dance my way into the kitchen. The music coming so easily, so quickly into my head that my feet carry me to the kitchen, the balls of my feet already warm from the friction.

There's a hint of vanilla that still lingers in the kitchen at this hour – no doubt the result of a massive spread of desserts from the Dimitrescu's dinner. I scour the cabinet for the source of that smell, and find some caramel drizzled cookies I know Bianca had to have made. She'd been talking about making them to see if it would be a hit with the Mistress and her daughters.

And when taking my first bite, I'd have to agree. Gods, these are good. Bianca is such a better baker than cook. After taking three more, I decide to leave a note for her, confessing to my thievery and usage of a glass of milk before leaving the kitchen, nibbling on my final cookie.

As I reenter the main hall, I'm suddenly startled by a shrilling scream – so raw and full of pain it ices my blood. I nearly choke on the cookie, immediately running over to the fire and throwing the rest of it into the flames.

Heart racing, I look all around the main hall, but don't see anything. Despite my abrupt reaction, somewhere in the back of my mind, I know where that sound had come from.

My tongue suddenly turns to ash, suffocating the delectable taste of the caramel cookie.

I drop onto the couch, rubbing my hands on my face as I try to push the scream out of my mind. I quickly realize that if some poor soul had made that sound, someone else has to be there to draw the sound from them.

One of them is awake.

I have a feeling it might be Cassandra – my mind steady while my body is quivering like a leaf.

The shock is as fresh as a new wound – someone is being tortured right now, while I was enjoying a midnight snack.

Could it be Kathryn? The shrill was too high pitched to be Bela's suitor. I don't think it would be Bianca – she hasn't don't anything. Same for Gretta.

I try to take deep, steadying breaths to stop my body's trembling, but my hands still continue to shake. I need to get back to bed. Even if I can't sleep, I'll be in the safety of my room.

I stand up and begin to head for the stairs, when there's a sharp pain in my chest. I stop on the third step and clutch my hand to my heart, expecting to find some wound or even a bug, but there's nothing.

I gasp when I feel, almost a tug from the inside of my chest. As though someone had pulled on my rib with a string. I look all around, baffled. But quickly I start to wonder if the cookies were poisoned or something – a parting gift for Bela's suitor –

The tug happens again, only this time, gentler, as if aware I had been startled. But it is also accompanied by an odd feeling in the back of my head. Almost like a caress – but one of talons and claws, like a crow feeling for my hair.

I shake my head and bat at my ears, expecting some kind of bug to fall out, but nothing happens. My breathing begins to quicken as I feel that caress once more, along the crown of my head, feeling for a weak point –

Behind my closed eyes, the room darkens and lightens again. Opening my eyes, I expect to find Lady Dimitrescu watching me with narrowed brows and fury in her golden stare, but . . . I look around and I see nothing. All the doors to the main hall are closed, safe for the dining room. Which I should probably close, actually.

Standing straight and poking my finger in my ears to make sure there are no bugs, I comb my fingers through my disheveled hair and step back down the stairs towards the dining room. I take one more look around again, and there is no one.

But as I'm about to close the doors, a shadow moves in my periphery. I look up towards the doors to the courtyard just in time to see one close. The chilly autumn breeze twining for me like vines on brick. Looking at the window, I see a figure pass by – Bianca.

I instantly blurt before I think better of it, "Bianca!"

I burst for the doors, practically slamming it open as I step out into the courtyard to try and keep an eye on her.

It's almost pitch black out here, with only the lights from the windows as guidance. But – there she is! She's carrying a small candle, trekking through the open courtyard at a brisk pace. I don't really care what she's doing up, given my situation, but she shouldn't be out here in the courtyard, in the dark and cold, by herself.

"Bianca!" I call to her again, watching as she continues ignore me, making her way towards the opera hall.

I quickly follow after her, keeping to a path of lesser puddles and frozen leaves, never taking my eyes off her.

"Bianca!"

Still nothing.

Swearing under my breath, I follow her into the doors of the castle annex, carelessly wiping my feet on the rug as I continue to follow her into the opera hall. Maybe she wanted to just have her own walk around, see the hall and relax a bit. I can maybe ask her about the cookies, even though I haven't felt the tug or tickling since I'd spotted her.

I'm less than a foot behind her, the door to the hall closing seconds behind her before I burst in. "Bianca, what are you doing up so–?"

Silence.

Empty. The hall is completely empty.

I look all around, but don't find anything. My heart beginning to race. I step out into the epicenter of the room, peering up into the balconies, but I don't see anyone. I don't see Bianca.

Maybe those cookies really were poisoned. Now I'm starting to see shit.

I'm considering just sticking my head into the vacant fireplace and vomiting up what I can, but I take a deep breath, and I just stand in the silence for a moment. Awaiting anything else that might add to my suspicion. My stomach isn't gurgling, I don't feel dizzy or nauseas at all. That tugging has since stopped, and my mind feels calm at the moment. I don't hear anything.

Maybe my body is actually tired, and I just don't know it. I should get back to bed.

Still, I force myself to head back to the annex and climb the stairs to the second floor of the opera hall, just to be safe. I also check my many hiding places for my ammo boxes, and they're all still there.

Scouring the second floor, there's not a soul in sight.

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, and I comply a sudden urge to leave.

But as I'm about to descend the stairs, a light flickers in the corner of my eye.

I look over and find a desk tucked into a small nook tucked into the side of the wall, just off a lounging area of the upper floor. The light belongs to a lantern left by an open book. It flickers again, and with safety more on my mind, I walk over to turn down the lamp, but pause when I behold the open book.

Within it there's delicate, feminine handwriting between the spaces of two photos.

Of the figures in the photo, I immediately recognize Mother Miranda, sat on the edge of a woman's bed, holding aloft some kind of . . . demon child. A writhing bit of flesh hovers over the woman, who looks to be sleeping. I gag at the thought of what might've happened.

The second photo isn't any better. It shows the woman's naked body in different states of decay. A diagram of a fly drawn next to them.

I swallow past the tightness in my throat, also to keep down the midnight snack that I can feel rising up.

The writhing tentacles of that . . . thing can be seen again sprouting from the temple of the dead woman's body.

I was about to put the book down, until I peered closer at the woman laying on the bed beside Mother Miranda. She looks familiar . . .

She looks like . . . like Daniela.

Thunder rolls outside, startling me to look around, in case I had been spotted.

No one.

Going back to the journal, I glance over the writing.

"One day since treatment," I whisper. "The three girls have stopped moving. They seem almost dead. An insect flew out of the eldest one's mouth. It appears to be a common fly."

I turn the page.

Two days since treatment. All three bodies are covered in flies. It appears the flies are consuming their flesh. When I opened the window some of the flies dropped dead to the floor. It would seem the cold petrifies them. I quickly closed the window to avoid weakening the insects further.

I shudder, bracing a hand on the wall, but keep reading ahead.

Four days since treatment. All three bodies have almost been completely consumed by the insects. All that is left is a dark, writhing human-shaped mass of creatures. It is just after noon and the insects have started to change color. Those around the face turned pale and those around the lips turned a deep crimson.

Bile rises at the back of my throat. My knees near quivering, almost unable to support my weight. My breathing quickens and my heart is ready to break my ribs.

"I don't remember much. It was just, darkness."

Time slows and bleeds. I turn the page.

Six days since treatment. The mass of insects have transformed into human bodies again. All three girls awoke, looking at me like newborns. I sense a bond between us. Like mother and daughters.

I have already decided their names: Bela, Daniela, and Cassandra.

The book falls from my hands, fingers limp.

I fall back on my still-sore ass in unison with the book, trembling like I'd been caught in a snowstorm.

Without much thought, I scramble over to one of the potted plants and completely lose the contents of my stomach. Worsened by my constant trembling.

Experiments. They were experiments. And Lady Dimitrescu aided in those experiments.

'Almost dead,' were they alive while they were, implanted with that thing?

I vomit again into the potted plant, my back growing slick with sweat despite the chill wafting through the castle.

Another book falls from the table, and I'm startled into a coughing fit. I spit the contents into the pot as well, using a leave to wipe my mouth.

I just sit there. Trembling and in shock as the breeze flutters the pages of the journal. Lady Dimitrescu's journal.

Her daughters really were like us before. Then Mother Miranda and Lady Dimitrescu got a hold of them, and experimented on them for gods know what fucking reason.

My fists clench, so hard that pain pierces through them, and I realize I'm jabbed my nails through the skin of my palm. I pat away the bits of crimson with the inside of my robe.

More pages flutter, and I find another journal has opened itself to me. Crawling over, feeling as if I'm being pulled from my body, my eyes first spot a drawing of a fly. Of the flies that make up the three daughters.

Similar structure to blow flies, although there are differences in the head. They are carnivorous and vigorously consume meat. In order to catch unsuspecting prey, they'll gather using pheromones to mimic a human. They are produced when a – C-Cadoo . . . cadow? – lays eggs in its host, but the flies themselves are unable to reproduce. They are weak to sudden drops in temperature. Especially if the temperature drops below 10°C, their metabolism lowers and they go into a dormant, cryptobiotic state.

The rest compares it to a scientific name I'm not even going to try to pronounce.

I stare. And stare.

Perhaps time has stopped. Perhaps I am dead. I can't feel my body.

A hand locks around my throat, crushing the air from me.

"You little cunt." Lady Dimitrescu hisses.

She hurls me across the room, hard enough that I slam into the side of the wall, just beneath the window, rattling the two decorative vases and sending on shattering to the floor.

By second nature, I grab a large, jagged piece and press myself against the wall. I hold the piece to my chest – better than nothing.

Stars dance in my eyes, the back of my head throbbing. Gods, I didn't even hear her despite her size. How the hell could she creep up on me?

I push myself to my feet, uncaring of the broken bits of ceramic jabbing into my bare feet. Lady Dimitrescu's attention remains fixed on me as she says, "What game are you playing, little pet?"

That title seems to be the only reason she didn't rip out my throat. Might've had a hard time explaining that to Bela.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Lady Dimitrescu bristles, but she doesn't remove her focus from me as she continues, "You just can't stay out of someone's business, can you?"

"I-I didn't mean to."

I try to adjust my balance as to not push the shards further into my feet. I loosen my robe and let it drop to the floor, as if it'll somehow provide me with extra speed. Though my nipples pebble at the chilling breeze, though it makes me feel naked under her stare, I grip my wrist and force myself to stiffen like a statue.

"And yet here you are." She says coolly.

"My Lady, please," my voice hitches, "I'm not looking for trouble. I-I-I was just out for a midnight snack, I couldn't sleep. I thought . . ." – I bite down on my tongue to stop myself from saying Bianca's name. I know now it wasn't her I followed here – that lured me here. But I'm not about to think about who it could've been – "I thought, I'd practice a little bit before your party, and I got distracted and wandered, and I just happened upon your journal."

Her nostrils flare, and I pray she can still smell the caramel and my fear to help back my story. I never did truly intend to come here, but apparently someone else wanted me to.

She points a clawed finger towards me. "You will never speak of this to anyone, do you understand me?"

"Who is going to do anything if I do?" I say, as I start to inch my way towards the door.

"Are you talking back to me?" She seethes, taking a step forward.

I check my tone, "No one here has the guts to do anything. No one is going to care, even if I chose to tell them. Not that I would."

Within two steps, Lady Dimitrescu already has her hand around my neck again, and I grip her wrist with my free hand, the one holding the jagged piece poking just the tip into her skin. This act alone could mean my execution, but I refuse to die like a wriggling worm.

I'm thrown across the room once more, through the threshold and crashing into the ornately carved, wooden balcony of the opera hall. The wood groans, bits of dirt and dust dripping down below.

The piece of ceramic clutters from my hand, tearing into the skin. I barely have time to breathe before Lady Dimitrescu's large hands are picking me up and bending me over the polished, wooden raining.

The blood immediately starts to flow to my face, each pump of my heart traveling throughout my brain, my eyes, my neck, and I know I'm turning red. I try to breathe – breathe!

Her one hand pins my wrists at my back, the other holding me over the edge. One single push and I'd be falling. I don't know if it'll be enough to kill me, but she can easily make it look like an accident. Even incapacitate me to drag me down to the cellar, never to be seen again.

"I won't tell anyone!" I grit through my teeth. "I haven't told anyone anything about their flies, have I?"

Again, who would believe me?

"You can trust me." I say with a more pleading tone. "I promise."

I can feel her body looming over me, stepping close until I can feel her press against my back. "Perhaps I didn't punish you enough from before, my dear." She purrs with deadly venom.

I try to breathe through the suffocation of the blood rushing to my head. "Please, My Lady, I won't tell anyone. No one will believe me anyway."

"I don't care about you telling the other servants, little mouse."

I blink in surprise. "They don't know?" The words are breathless as my heart continues to pump blood throughout my head.

"They know enough." She says, her voice calming with worry.

"They don't know you partook in it." I clarify.

I'm yanked back suddenly, the breath pulled from me as Lady Dimitrescu tosses me into the wall. I cough and breath, my head pounding like a hammer to an anvil. As my blood continues to flow back to the rest of my body, Lady Dimitrescu's form blocks out the light of the chandelier.

"I won't tell. I promise you, I won't tell."

"I believe you, my darling." Her voice has resorted back to the cool, educated indifference. But it's only that more terrifying. "But I need your word."

As I push myself on my hands and knees, I hear the whining of metal, and I grow as still as death as one of Lady Dimitrescu's claws are curving just under my chin. Poised perfectly to lop my head of with a flick of her wrist.

"I want you to take a blood oath to me." she purrs.

My entire body goes numb.

A blood oath, the only thing stronger, and more binding than your word in our pathetic, human world.

A blood oath, used by ancient kings and queens among their inner circle, among their most trusted companions, it is an ultimate display of loyalty and obedience.

But as the years passed on, as traditions fell and oaths have been severed and broken, a blood oath is a binding of servitude. A relinquishing of free will and independence.

I shake my head. "I can't." My voice is a broken rasp, pain pulsing through my feet.

"You will, or you shall die. Or perhaps suffer a fate worse than death." She angles her head in a sickening parody of mirth. "I'd had to see what Cassandra would do to such a face. Or perhaps Mother Miranda will enjoy breaking that spirit."

"You won't give me over to her." I snarl with a challenging stare. "Not with Bela."

Alcina's eyes darken, brows narrowing in a predatory gaze that almost makes me wet myself.

"Perhaps you need a little persuasion." She purrs with grit teeth.

I'm lifted off my aching feet like a toddler, cradled in her arms. I wouldn't have minded had she not grabbed my chin with one of her sharp nails poking under my jaw. With the way I've seen her maneuver, one flick of her wrist, and it'll pierce through me.

Instinctively, I grip her wrist, and her fingers dig harder into my skin.

If I move, I die.

I'm stuck.

"Good girl," Lady Dimitrescu grins as I force myself to relax in her arms. "Let us take a little tour, shall we?"