The dungeon smells of blood and death.

It is dark, with barely any light save for a few candles spread here and there.

Getting down here was stomach-sinking enough. She carried me down, down, down into the castle bowels to a rotunda that reeked of decaying flesh. A round table sat at the center of the room, poised with four plates, all licked clean, but still tainted with red.

That was their true dining room. Where they enjoyed their meals as a family.

We passed by a couple of barrels sat next to the table, and Alcina paused long enough for me to hear raspy, exhausted breathing coming from inside one of them.

Then fingers slipped through the crevice of the barrel's boards, and Alcina had to clap her gloved hand over my mouth as I gasped, nearly shrieked. I tried to wriggle my way out of her arms, but she pressed a taloned tip of her metal nail into my stomach, ready to gut me like a fish should I dare move.

She led me further down, to a small storage area filled with more barrels. I couldn't bear to look, and I prayed to the Black God she wouldn't stop there.

Thankfully she didn't, but it only quickened our descent into the dark.

I had to cover my ears as the walls parted for her, a stunning, carved depiction of a great battle, opening like the maw of a beast, revealing an iron door that could be activated with a switch from the other side.

Inescapable. And silent; where no one can hear anyone scream.

I hear the sound of dripping water first, then the fading echo of a metal door clanging shut. The tang of mold and the reek of mildew scents the damp, cold air. I grip my legs hard to keep my hands from shaking.

Somewhere – not too far off – screaming begins.

A high-pitched, pleading bleat, accentuated with crescendos of shrieking that makes bile sting in my throat.

I might sound like that if I refuse to take Lady Dimitrescu's blood oath.

A whip cracks, and the screaming builds, hardly pausing for a breath. That woman-creature whom I had seen on a leash – Dandora – had probably cried similarly. What had she made of all this – these women lusting after her blood and misery?

"If you insist on poking your nose in my business, then perhaps you need to learn the full extent of what we do around here." Lady Dimitrescu says, her steps slow and long – effortless.

I can only catch glimpses of the cells – of who or what is in them.

One holds the upper half of a man's severed body, a large wooden bucket placed beneath him. His head has been wrapped in black cloth, a rope around his neck as he freely turns. Burlap sacks containing more bodies dangle from the ceiling like larvae in a wasp nest; a storage cell is filled with more barrels and human skeletons, various instruments meant to break men and women in the cruelest ways.

We pass by all of it – Alcina carrying me around like a mother and daughter visiting a puppy shelter; each cage holding someone, or what remains of someone.

I don't recognize any of the maids currently down here, though I doubt I would have anyway, since most of them are just skin and bones, nibbling on rat carcasses or rocking themselves through a ribbon of insanity.

"Were it not for my daughters you would've been down here long ago. I don't take kindly to anything less than perfection." Lady Dimitrescu says as she turns a corner deeper into the dungeon, and a deafening silence entombs this section of dungeon.

My brows narrow as Lady Dimitrescu sets me down, and points behind me, that hideously long, metal nail curling, and I turn.

There, nailed high on the wall of a cavernous nook of the dungeon, is the mangled corpse of a young woman. Her skin is burned in places, her fingers are bent at odd angles, and garish red lines crisscross her naked body. Her tongue looks like it had been ripped out, after they'd broken her jaw to get to it.

I can hardly hear Lady Dimitrescu over the roar in my ears.

Rachel Matthews.

The name I'd given Mother Miranda that night at dinner, it had belonged to an actual person.

My knees quiver.

They'd taken her. Dragged her from her bed in the middle of the night.

I didn't know. I didn't know. The name had just come to me, but –

But I did know. She was the daughter of a shopkeeper – the butcher whom I'd traded many times with. I'd only ever seen his daughter on occasions while she was helping at the shop. Other than that, she stayed away from me like every other villager. She had become a figment tucked in back of my mind.

This is what I'd done to her, by giving Mother Miranda her name to protect my family.

My insides twist; it is a concentrated effort not to empty my stomach onto the stones.

Lady Dimitrescu's talons dig into my shoulders as she shoves me around to face a wall of cells, as she gives me that snake's smile.

I had as good as killed Rachel. I'd saved my own life and damned her. That rotting body on the wall should be mine. Mine.

Mine.

"Come now, precious," Lady Dimitrescu says. "What have you to say to that?"

I want to spit that she deserves to burn in Hell for eternity, but I can only see Rachel's body nailed there, even as I stared blankly at the darkness of the cells before me. My eyes sting as bile burns my throat.

"My daughters deeply admire you for your fighting spirit." She says softly—consolingly. "And even I am impressed how you so easily gave the name of someone else rather than yours. Even to someone like me, that's cold blooded."

I snap my gaze to her. I won't let Rachel's death be in vain. I wasn't going down without a fight. "I do what I had to do to survive," I say. "You understand, don't you?"

Her lip curls back, revealing too-sharp canines. And as I stare into her glowing, golden eyes, I realize I am going to die.

But she releases my shoulders and stands back, crossings her arms. "Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad having you bound to my side in blood. Perhaps we can do something to enhance those killing instincts of yours."

"I'm no killer."

"Rachel would say otherwise. Things have been awfully boring since she decided to die on me. Killing you outright, Erika, would be dull." She flicks her gaze to me, then back to her nails. "But perhaps my darling Rachel had to die in order for me to have some true amusement with you."

My bowels turn watery—I can't help it.

There's a sudden caw of a woman – only deeper, laced with a hiss of a demon, and I surprise myself when my body remains rigid.

Lady Dimitrescu raises a brow, her smile growing, revealing far too many of those white teeth. "Why don't you say hello to our other little pets?"

I fall back due to the stabbing of the jagged bits in my feet, and bite back a grunt of pain as I see a gangly figure approach the cell door.

Dressed in filthy rags, the creature-woman-thing staggers towards the cell door, bumping into it, and then clawing at it mindlessly.

"Meet our Moroaica. The result of the woman who . . . don't please us as we'd like." Alcina says, gesturing to the other cells filled with more hissing and roaring and shrieking.

Arms long and bony, with claws protruding from their nails, their skin is as gray as a corpse. Their face shriveled, with a mouthful of razor-sharp, yet yellowed teeth.

They claw and shriek at the cell bars, no doubt smelling the blood dripping from my feet.

No thoughts. No will. Mindless drones only interested in the kill – in the hunt for blood.

They look at me with nothing but hunger in their blackened eyes.

My breath saws out of me, terror a roaring in my mind as I crawl backwards. I bump into Lady Dimitrescu's legs before she picks me up again, holding me in her arms like a toddler.

"What's the matter?" She motherly pouts with cruel intent.

She begins walking me towards one of the cells – one of Moroaica's bony arms reaching and clawing to get to me.

I begin to trash, though my voice is a whimper. "No. No, no!"

"You don't like our little friends here?" Still she continues closer.

When the creature's hand is too close, when I know its next swing is going to claw its way down my face, I grab it by the wrist and twist, ramming the crook of my thumb up into its elbow.

Its bloodcurdling scream is stabs deep into my ears, yet unable to drown out the sickening crack of its elbow breaking.

Alcina drops me out of surprise, the Moroaica suddenly thrashing to try and retreat further into its cell, but with its arm bent at a sickening, limp angle, it takes a few panicked tries – the arm stopping itself as it's being pulled in – before it slips through the bars and disappears into the darkness.

The other Moroaicas shrill and bang against their cell doors, and my bladder loosens, my lap becoming wet and warm.

I can't recall how to scream as another creature lunges for me.

Can't do anything at all as those long fingers wrap around my legs, claws ripping through my skin, and yanks me toward her.

Pain rips me from my stupor, and I fight, fingers grabbing at the stones, cracking my fingernails in the process. Willing to drag myself by stubs if I had to.

I manage to curl up some dirt and gods know what in my hand, and throw it at the creature dragging me closer to the barred door.

It shrieks and release me, and I leap to my feet and sprint back towards the dungeon entrance, my feet shredding from the jagged broken bits of vase and hardened stone. The pain distant as I navigate myself back up towards the surface – towards the light, towards humans.

Gangly arms reach from within the cells to try and grab me, their hissing a constant drone in my ears – like a hive of bees.

Something crunches beneath my feet, earning a yelp of pain as I tumble, my hands catching me before I crash into a puddle of – I don't want to think about it.

But when I look back to see what I had tripped on, I see a human jaw, blood still coating the joints.

I barely give it another thought as I barrel through the door of battling men, up the steps into the bloodied dining room, and back to the surface.

I don't know how I manage to make it back to the main hall, but I only stop when I see Helga's face – a blur of black and blue-grey.

I collide into her, her hands being the only thing keeping me from sinking to the floor, and only then does the pain of my feet begin to claw its way up my calves like denizens of the dead.

Her lips are moving, but I can't hear what she's saying. I just stare at her, contemplating if she is real, or if I've fallen victim to some hallucinogenic from being down there.

I can feel myself reaching that line beyond reason.

I don't even care how or why she's up this late in the night – or is it already morning.

I cling to her with vise-like hands, my breathing slowing down, my brain staring to catch up.

I manage to understand Helga saying, "Sit down," and I obey.

I stare into the fire as Helga kneels before me to examine my feet, swearing softly under her breath.

"Don't move. I'll be right back." Her footsteps disappear before I can protest.

Seconds pass, or minutes, or even hours – I don't know. I don't feel like I'm in my body anymore. But Helga is before me again with that familiar castle healer, Sandra.

She nestles before me, a wicker basket of supplies being set down next to her. Sandra carefully lifts my right foot to balance it on her knee, and my eyes flick to find her armed with a pair of tweezers – one long and the other short. To pull the jagged pieces from my feet.

The cushions are pressed down next to me as Helga sits beside me, enclosing one of her hands around my own.

"Erika, what happened?" she asks softly. "Why are you . . . like this?"

I want to answer, but it's like my mouth has been sewn shut. And Helga might be the only person I can ever tell this to. But not with Sandra here.

Those things in the dungeons . . . Those women in the dungeon.

Rachel . . .

Oh gods. Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods.

"Erika –"

All I can do is scream to startle Sandra out of my way before I vomit all over the floor.

I pant, staring at my mess. Then fall to my knees in it.

I puke again. And again. And then curl over my knees, my hair falling into the vomit as I rock myself in the stunned silence.

Unfazed, Helga approaches me, lifting her grey skirts just above her ankle to avoid dragging it through the vomit.

"Hey." Helga kneels at my side. She reaches for my shoulder, but lowers her hand. "You'll be okay."

I bow farther over myself, my fingers bone-white as they dig into my back hard enough to bruise. My voice is a broken rasp. "I want to go to back to my room."

Yet blood and dirt cake my bare feet. Enough of the former that Helga says, "Let Sandra take care of your feet first. Then you can go."

A moment of silence – perhaps an exchange of expression between the two women. Then Helga, frowning at the mess, slips away to find someone else to clean it.

Face firm yet gentle, Sandra lifts me out of my puddle of vomit and places me a few tiles over, wanting to keep weight off my feet, and to not mess up any of Lady Dimitrescu's furniture.

I let her control my like a marionette, knowing it's only a matter of time before Lady Dimitrescu walks through any of the doors in this hall and will begin to ask the blood oath of me.

I cannot outrun this – cannot outrun her.

Sandra does her best to wipe the vomit from my legs, my hair, and begins to skillfully remove the bits and pieces of ceramic from my feet. My nails have been broken down to the bed, but Sandra deems it less of a priority. She only gave it a quick glance, prioritizing my feet. Likely there's nothing she can do other than to let them grow before trimming them.

I vacantly stare at the empty space of tiles before me, wondering what the hell I'm going to do. I'm only aware of Sandra as she plucks and pulls – occasionally earning a twitch of my lip or an elongated blink.

I can't swear the blood oath to Alcina. I just can't.

I don't know why, but I almost feels sacrilegious to swear an oath to Lady Dimitrescu when . . . when I'd rather swear it to her daughter. I can be loyal to Bela. I know where I stand with her.

But Alcina . . . she still has the capacity to kill me, no matter what I swear to her.

Sandra fiddles with a deep enough piece that I hiss as I feel her remove it, dabbing an antiseptic seconds later. The burn only lasts a few seconds, but it's enough to curl my toes.

Helga returns with a fresh set of nightclothes and an extra rag, just in case. She wipes down my legs and hair again, one towel wet to better clean me with.

I try not to flinch as I hear the doors to the dining room open. Sandra, seated beside me, sucks in a breath as she continues to pick at my feet.

I can't speak; if I start talking, my trembling voice will betray me.

"Wait long?" Lady Dimitrescu coos as she approaches. I half expect to her draw out her long claws. As she stands over us, no doubt clocking each of our stiff postures, she chuckles. "You're quite the wild animal when cornered, aren't you Erika?"

Sandra pauses for the briefest of seconds, but resumes her work quickly. "Almost done," she mutters.

Helga's blue-grey eyes flicker. But she says nothing.

Lady Dimitrescu's lips pull back in a wicked smile. "So what'll be, precious? Take a blood oath from me, or rot with the rest of the human worms in the dungeon."

Sandra pauses her work for the shortest of seconds, and I know the news is going to spread amongst the servants first chance she gets released.

Her face ghastly white, Helga's eyes meet with mine, and they almost imperceptibly widened. No.

But it is either this or death—death like Rachel's, slow and brutal. I don't believe in Fate or the Black God—and I have no other choice.

"My Lady, surely any offense she did can be justified with more housework. Keep her busy so she doesn't have the time to –"

"Shut your mouth, wretch." Lady Dimitrescu says sharply. "You don't know the things she's done. And my word is still law, so long as this castle still stands."

"I want to go to my room," I whimper again.

Lady Dimitrescu angles her head. "Your mother spent years teaching you poetry and fine speech, and that is all you can come up with? I should rip out your tongue for letting it go to waste."

I clamp my teeth together.

Unfortunately, Sandra finishes plucking the pieces from my shredded feet – likely driven by fear at Lady Dimitrescu's mere presence – and begins the process of bandaging my feet. I hiss again at the sting of antiseptic, earning an apologetic wince from Sandra. She glances fearfully at Lady Dimitrescu – who dutifully ignores her.

"Madame, perhaps once I've guided Miss Erika to her rooms, she'll be able to properly answer your questions." Helga interjects, even going as far as to step in front of the towering Mistress.

"I'll bring her to her rooms myself, Helga." The Lady spits. "And I will discuss further business with her privately."

She's not going to let me go. She's not going to allow any time to breathe, to contemplate. I either take the vow, or I die. And judging from her tone, Helga is one sentence away from being sliced in half.

So, I force myself to stand on my feet, folding my lips in to trap the audible sounds of agony as a sharp pressure travels up my calves, buckling my knees.

I barely turn towards Lady Dimitrescu as I say, "Bela won't approve of this."

A lift of a brow. "Perhaps she might. It not only guarantees your protection further, but it also swears your loyalty to House Dimitrescu. To her."

Bullshit, I want to spit. But she's not wrong – more like it's a loophole that benefits her. Opening a door to things that bring on more than just mending and sewing and laundry.

Her black, gloved hands slip under me, and like a loose cat, she picks me up and carries me up the stairs. I peer over her shoulder, silently thanking Helga and Sandra for their help.

I speak the words I can't audibly say through my eyes. I let them see how I have no choice, let them see that I've accepted my fate.

Anything than to go back down into that dungeon. Anything than being just another gutted cow for them to feast on.

We make it to my room in a blur, Lady Dimitrescu ducking down lower than usual to get into my room. The process shoves her enormous breast into my face, near cradling in my lap.

Once inside, she sets me down at the middle of my room, shutting the door with a backward kick.

Too small—this room is too small for two people, especially when one of them is ancient and dominates the space just by breathing. I slump onto the first available chair, if only to put more air between me and Lady Dimitrescu.

Her golden eyes glow in the dim light. She slowly smiles from where she stands by the door. "Like I'd let you get away, little pet?"

"Go to Hell," I snap, but the words are little more than a wheeze. My head is light and heavy all at once. If I try to stand, I will topple over.

"I offer you help, and you have the nerve to tell me to leave?"

"Get away," I repeat.

She stalks closer with that feline grace and drops into an easy crouch before me. She sniffs, curling her lips at the corner where my bed sits, no doubt laced with the scent of my arousal and heat. It had been the only comfort and freedom I had throughout these days without Bela.

"Normally I'd slice your throat for such disrespect, but my vow to my daughter has my fingers tied. To an extent." She sneers. "It would seem being with my daughter has bloomed such privileges in you."

I spit at her feet, but she keeps pacing, only giving me a disapproving look.

"Most women have gone to the dungeon for far less offenses." Her hand is around my throat before I can say anything. "You ungrateful, selfish wretch. I give you a job here, my daughter gives you special privileges, and how do you thank me?"

I focus on the feeling of my feet on the floor—focus on the dry mud beneath my fingernails. Anything to bring focus away from her fingers pressing along the outside of my jaw.

"You involve yourself into things you have no business being in. And I will not stand to have some human worm blackmail me into anything of her advantage."

"I said I wouldn't tell anyone." I say grit through my clenched teeth. If she grips me any harder, they might crack.

Something flickers in her eyes, and she takes a deep breath, rolling her neck and shoulders.

"I'll make a deal with you," she says casually, and gently setting me down. I can only drop into the chair.

I snap my head to her. "No."

"No?" She braces her hands on hips and leans closer. "Really?"

"Get out," I breath.

"You'd turn down my offer—and for what?" I don't reply, so she goes on. "You must be holding out for one of your friends—for Bianca, maybe? After all, she looks after you better than anyone else in his castle, doesn't she? I see her fawning after you like a lovesick puppy. Not that I appreciate such attention you're getting with my daughter involved. Oh, don't look so innocent. You think I can't smell her your scent all over her, and she to you?" Her eyes sparkle, and she stands at her full height. "The way I see things, Erika, you have two options. The first, and the smartest, would be to accept my offer. The second option—and the one only a fool would take—would be for you to refuse my offer and place your life, and the life of your sister, in the hands of chance."

Her sentence just finishes as I shoot out of my chair and flip the table. It soars past Lady Dimitrescu's waist and slams into the siding of the stairs.

A feral growl fills the room as I grab the chair I've been sitting on, hurling it against the wall, so hard its wooden frame shatters and crumples.

She nods her chin. "Impressive."

I ignore her and head straight towards the bathroom, needing to rinse the acid taste out of my mouth. Lady Dimitrescu allows it, even placing the fresh clothes Helga had brought me on the edge of my bed. I gargle and rinse with some mint, wiping and lathering my arms and legs until they're pink, and my hair is dreaded with water.

I half expect Lady Dimitrescu to come barging in and drag me out by my hair, but when I leave the bathroom, hair matted into clumps, she's still standing at the center of my room.

"Well?"

I bared my teeth. "Go. To. Hell."

Swift as lightning, she lashed out, grabbing my bandaged ankle, and hauling me up like a sack of rice. A scream shatters out of me, ravaging my throat. The world flashes black and white and red. I thrash and writhe, but she keeps her grip, twisting the bone to near breaking before releasing my ankle.

Panting, half sobbing as the pain reverberates through my body, I find her smirking at me again. I spit in her face.

She only laughs as she stands, wiping her cheek with an embroidered handkerchief trimmed with lace. "Your anger is truly something to behold. How it wipes away all logic and manners. I wonder if your father was up to something when training you like a soldier."

I attempt to pull myself to stand on my good foot, but I can only manage to sit myself on the edge of the bed.

"Darling, I'm a compassionate woman. My daughters and I have been known to let our emotions get the best of us. So why not use this opportunity to try again with a clean slate."

"Bela won't forgive you." I growl.

"Listen, if you won't hold up your end of the bargain, then I can't guarantee your safety. And there are worse humans out there, who will take advantage of you." she leans forward towards me, her smile near grotesque. "You could get very, very, hurt."

I raised my chin as high as I can manage when looking up at her. "What am I to expect with this new change?"

"Nothing will change out of your daily routine. You just can't go around telling my daughters anything they don't need to know."

"So I'm expected to lie to Bela?"

"I'm sure it won't be that hard for you."

I clamp my mouth shut – I won't take that bait. I won't show my hand, or my emotions, towards her daughter to her.

I can't think entirely of the enormity of what I am about to give—or else I might refuse again. I met The Mistress's gaze.

"Let me see your arm," she says too quietly.

I kept my arm tucked at my side.

"Let me see it." A growl rips from her. Without waiting for my reaction, she grabs my elbow and forces my arm into the light of the fire.

Before I can brace myself, there is a blinding, quick pain, and my scream is choked in my throat as I feel Lady Dimitrescu's tongue lap along my wrist. A thick drop of blood breaks past her lips – their crimson red color near enveloping my entire wrist – and slides down my forearm.

She continues to drink, my lip curling at the sound of my blood slurping into her mouth. No doubt she'd cut me with one of her nails, but its better than my head.

I bite my lip to fight the urge to pull away, not wanting her teeth to cut my skin further. She might even cut my hand off just from feeling it tug. But I do curl my fingers into claws at the stinging, the lapping of her tongue, fighting disgust as it smears a thin layer of red further along my wrist.

There's an alarming pause, and slowly, so slowly her eyes look to mine.

My heart drops to the floor when I see the pupils of her eyes widen, like an excited cat. And something about her posture, her very being seems to stiffen with predatory awareness.

"You taste . . . divine."

There's nothing human in her voice.

Her smile becomes a bit wild, and in a blink, she hauls me off my feet until I'm dangling an inch off the floor, having to adjust my shoulder so she doesn't rip it out of its socket.

Both of her hands wrap around my arm, feeling like a twig despite my exercises, and I fear she's going to crack in half. But she keeps licking and sucking on my wrist, the stinging becoming more prevalent, like a needle feeling its way beneath my skin.

"M-My Lady." I command, trying to snap her from this, feeding frenzy, before she drains me dry. But I also don't want to make her more aggressive – I've seen other predators do this, driven to a place of madness by the kill, by the feast.

Bela had a similar look to her when I let her have some of my blood by the riverbank.

I manage to hoist myself up and lock my legs around her forearm, my free hand grabbing her wrist. Not knowing what to do exactly, I try batting at her hat to see if it would get her to stop, but she's latched to me like a leech.

"Lady Dimitrescu." I say with a bite in my tone, enough that I would hope her anger would outrun her hunger.

But still, she feeds. There's a tickle at the back of my brain, and I begin to fear I'm in the starting phase of feeling faint. I have no choice but to try and brace my foot on her chest to try and pull my arm away from her.

One arm does release me, but only to push me close to her so that her head rests between my thighs. My cheeks immediately flush, and I try to adjust myself, so I don't bump into the brim of her hat. But her hands clamp around my thighs, and I'm forced to hold myself aloft as her nose presses just below my navel.

"My, My Lady." I mutter.

She takes a deep inhale, the tip of her nose tracing left and right, triggering goosebumps along my skin, and a tingle in my core. Oh gods.

"My Lady, please." I try again, making to wriggle myself off her, ready to take the blunt of hitting the wooden floor.

But I feel one of her nails tracing down my spine, slicing through my nightgown like scissors to paper, the fabric falling away from me like wilted petals.

"W-Wait –" the word is a breathless plea, evaporating as I feel the sensation of falling – no, being pushed back, and I gasp when I feel cold stone press against my bare back.

My nipples instantly harden, my skin crawling with goosebumps. Lady Dimitrescu still doesn't look at me, the brim of her hat now touching my navel as well, and I can feel her tongue licking and exploring.

"So divine!" she growls, predatory hunger and clouded lust coating her words like ichor.

She rips away the rest of my nightgown, causing me to gasp, and my one hand to clamp over my barren chest. Some innate, female part of me hums with delight.

I have to brace a hand against the wall, and I wait for the painful images to come forth like a floodgate. I wait for my body to tense, to go into that sudden rush of fear preservation.

But . . . nothing. Nothing but that warmth deep within my core, pulsing and leaking from arousal. And as Lady Dimitrescu spreads my legs wider, I can feel a twitch of anticipation from the bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs.

What the hell is wrong with me?

The tip of Lady Dimitrescu's nose is inches from my clit, her breath hot as it tickles my entrance.

"My Lady," the words are nothing more than a breath. I can't even tell if they're a plea to stop, or keep going.

But her finger hooks around the thin piece of fabric that is my underwear, snapping it in half with a slice of her nail. My breathing intensifies as her guttural, predatory growl travels along my skin, my bones at the scent of my arousal, my wetness.

I should stop this. I should –

Lady Dimitrescu parts my gleaming sex with her thumbs before dragging her tongue straight up my center. No delicate tasting, no flicks of permission.

No. I am hers. Her servant

Her pet.

Her meal.

Her feast.

I cry out in surprise, clapping my hand over my mouth seconds after. Another low growl, and her tongue drags itself up my center again, flicking extra excitedly at my clit. My hips instinctually buck, wanting to plunge her deeper, wanting a fill.

Stars sparkle behind my eyes, my breasts aching so much as I arc into the air, almost bowing over onto Lady Dimitrescu's hat.

Her tongue pushes into me, curling deep and I buck.

"Paradise." She mutters into my skin, pulling back enough for me to note the smearing of her red lipstick all over my mound.

I bite at my finger to keep from shouting as she drives her tongue back into me, then drags it all the way up to my clit again. She sucks on it gently, and my eyes roll back into my head. Merciful Black God . . .

Alcina unleashes herself. Pressing her head, her tongue, deeper into me; feasting on me. I brace my hands against the stone wall behind me, grinding against her, the movement of her head leading the rhythm. Being this high off the ground, having my legs spread so wide, the feeling of her tongue filling every inch inside me all combine into a maelstrom of pleasure that has me sweating despite the season's chill leaking through the cracks of stone.

She grips my thighs hard enough to bruise and I love it, need it; I drive my hips into her face, pushing her tongue into me – the feeling so filling yet hollowing, her tongue tracing and curling along that gods damned spot –

My entire body is heating with sweat, the solid, cold stone the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. But just as quickly, Lady Dimitrescu takes a step back, forcing me to hold myself up, but one of her hands comes up and forces me to lower, to dangle.

No better than a piece of meat.

Thankfully she's close to my bed, my hands able to find purchase and guide myself so my head is resting on the edge of the bed; allowing myself to look up at my dangling body, looking at my legs hooked over Lady Dimitrescu's shoulders, the feeling of my ass pressed against her breasts, her tongue sliding in and out of me.

The sight undoes me.

I burn my cautions to ash as I allow my voice to grow louder, allow my hips to follow the rhythm of her tongue, of her thumbs that occasionally brush against my clit, until I'm near screaming; coming hard enough that I arc off her chest, bending backwards with my hands bracing in the edge of the bed. On the edge of the world I'm falling off of.

She licks me through every ripple, my body quivering so harshly – but she doesn't give up. in fact, she revels in it, continually teasing my sensitive clit until I'm begging her to stop. But not before I feel something loosen in my core, and a trickle of warmth down my thighs.

When the climax eases, when my entire body begins to twitch and clench and tingle, Lady Dimitrescu drops me like a stone. The falling sensation pumps enough adrenaline to my brain that I move my body into flopping onto the bed.

Breathless and trembling, naked and gleaming, I stare up at the towering woman. She tilts her heard towards the ceiling, taking a deep breath – relishing in the ecstasy of my orgasm, of her power to do so. The corners of my mouth twitch at the gleam of her lips, of her chin.

I lift my head to peer down my navel and find a thin smearing of red that trails down and along my thighs, guided by finger-shaped bruises that remind me of black roses. The thought brings my gaze to my wrist.

It has coagulated, smeared in a much darker red, but looking worse than it is. A simple bath and it'll look no different than a cat scratch.

After a moment of silence, safe for the crackling of the fire, Lady Dimitrescu sighs, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping her mouth off. She hums, "I must get ahold of myself."

I roll myself onto my side, bracing on my elbows. Though I do inch myself back until I'm in the middle of the bed, fidgeting uncomfortably at the wetness still between my legs.

What the hell was that? Oh gods, did I get any on Lady Dimitrescu?

I look to her chest, and I can see bits of skin gleaming along the swells of her breasts, see a small stain along the neckline of her dress. When her eyes return to me, that wildness is gone; her regality having returned. Had it not been for that wetness, for the bits of ribbon that was my former nightgown, I would've thought I'd dreamed it.

"Well done, Erika. Now that the blood oath is solidified, I shall take my leave."

I blink. "Was that part of the, initiation?"

A bedroom soft laugh. "No child. That was, a bit of lack in self-control, on my part. My apologies. I didn't know you'd taste so . . . sweet. I can promise you it won't happen again," a curling smile, "at least, not so, unannounced."

Divine, had been the word she used to describe my blood. Come to think of it, I think Dani, and Bela used that term too. Bela described it as sweet, and I'd been too bothered by her secret to fly swarms to really care. To process.

I suppose I should be flattered.

Lady Dimitrescu looks over to the clock posted on the fireplace mantel. "Well, I suppose I should be letting you sleep, you still have a big day ahead of you tomorrow. And you'll be due for a fitting with Gabriella before our party."

And just like that, I've been dipped in an ice bucket.

"Rest while you can dear, because the next few hours are going to require some, focus."

She turns and is about to duck through the door, when she looks back with a quirked brows.

"Am I understood?" There's enough tone in her voice that says I should've answered the first time.

I push myself into a sitting position, tucking my legs beneath me, and lower my head. "Yes, My Lady."

As she tips her hat at me, she says as she ducks through the doorway, "I can see why my daughter is so fond of you."