The consummation chamber is bathed in red. The silken sheets are a deep red, the straps hanging off the bedpost a deeper silky red, the pillows, the lighting, everything.
There are no roses. There will be no delusions here of love or softness. The room is as severe as the consummation will be, and just as brutal.
I am pushed into the vast chamber, my bare foot slapping against the cold tiles and before I can whirl, the door is slammed shut behind me. The lock clicks.
I run forward, slamming into the double doors. I ram my hand against it. "Let me out. Please." My chest constricts. Heavy, terrified breaths puff out of me. "Please. I can't... I can't..."
There are guards positioned outside the door. I can see their outlines through the impenetrable glass frames in the door. But they stay perfectly still. They do not let me out.
"Boo," a voice purrs against my ear.
I shriek, whirling around and swinging my fist. It slams against skin and I do not stop swinging blindly as real fear settles deep into me, ridding me of any rational thought, any little training I might have had in the past.
Father never let us near the training halls. He had more than enough men to protect us if things went awry. But I should have pushed more. I should have known he would, one day, send me to my death.
In that moment, I promise myself that if I ever make it out of here, I will work my bones until I am never helpless in front of a man ever again.
A strong hand catches my wrists easily and slams it against the door over my head. I whimper as pain erupts in my shoulder. But then, I remember I have legs. And I begin to thrash, kicking, slamming up my knees wildly in hopes to catch his groin or knee.
His response is jerking his knee between my legs and jamming up, into the apex of my thighs.
I cry out in pain as my knees buckle, collapsing on itself. Because his knee remains between my legs, I don't fall. My entire weight is held up by him.
"Fighting never helps," he says against my ear, watching the rapid rise and fall of my chest. He cocks his head to the side and I see blood where I scratched him with my nails. The wound has begun to close, but blood dribbles down his chin. "Am I so different from Ceaser that the very thought of being my whore terrifies you so?"
I spit in his face. "You accursed swine."
He blinks. Lifts a hand to his cheek where my saliva runs down, mingling with his blood. His eyes are wide as he stares at it. His chest heaves once. Just once.
And I receive no warning, none at all, before he grabs my neck and throws me across the room. I hit the bed with a crash, the bed frame shattering with the force and a crack runs up the head post.
I roll off, head spinning, heart pounding as my hands search wildly, and they close over the vase on the bedstand just as I feel his weight settle on top of me.
I twist and swing wildly, shattering the glass against his head. In the training halls, men go down. In movies, men stagger.
Prince Ruin does neither.
He just stares at me as more blood trickles from the cut across his head, running down the side of his face. His gaze is fixed on my chest and I look down to find that my robe has come undone. I am naked underneath him.
My hands fly to my chest to cover my breasts, but he catches them, setting them apart and trapping them underneath his knees so tightly, moving will snap my wrists.
He reaches for my cheek. Runs a hand down from my jaw to my neck. "You are nothing special, Guinevere," he says. "Fighting, shrieking, resisting. They all do that. Nothing you do is any different. You are a dull, plain thing, like parchment. You are not a great beauty. You do not stand out in a crowd. You are... unremarkable."
Tears sting my eyes. I do not know why his words sink in and settle like stone, echoing in my mind like it is an empty cave.
"Being Ceaser's was all that was special about you." His lips curl into a cruel sneer. "And now, even that is gone. You hold your visage like you are something extraordinary, but when I look at you, all I see is a foolish girl, so desperate to be wanted, she willed into existence a bond to latch onto the first man that said he loved her. You disgust me."
My lips part in a hateful cry, but his hand slaps over my mouth, pressing my lips into my teeth. And in the same breath, his mouth closes over my nipple, his fangs piercing flesh.
The most unusual sensation comes over me.
My mind screams at me to fight harder, but the sound that comes out of me when his tongue slides over my nipple is not a scream.
I start to thrash again, frightened, but there is nowhere to run. His mouth is hot and his tongue, probing. My body is in a state of panic and confusion. To fight or to... to let him continue.
It's the pheromones. It's clouding my senses and imposing lust onto me. I know this. I recognize this. But why do my insides clench with everything flit, ripple and dart of his tongue on me.
Shame. Embarrassment. Hatred. It slams into me as heat zaps straight to my core and a cry of despair entangled with hunger climbs up my throat. Warmth gathers between my legs. My spine arches off the bed as I fight it. Fight him.
He pulls back then and I see blood on his fangs. He cocks his head slightly, watching my body's reaction to him with dark glee.
I pray to the goddess that he doesn't smell the proof of it. That he doesn't find out just how much he got to me. But he reaches down, raises the hem of the chemise and cups my center, two fingers pushing inside me without resistance.
The impact is wet.
Tears roll down my cheeks.
His laugh is a dark, terrifying thing in the face of my utter humiliation. "In the end, you are nothing but a dirty, little slut."
He rolls off me abruptly and walks out the room without another word. And he doesn't return throughout the night.