W hatever happened at the foot of the black throne worked out well for me because I wake up in a gothic princess boudoir. Heavy brocade fabrics drape the windows and the chairs, and a king-size canopy bed beckons me to lose myself between sheets of black satin. Candles flicker to life as soon as I open my eyes. A cozy fire crackles in the cast iron fireplace. A silk screen conceals the entrance to another room. It’s definitely an upgrade from the cold dungeon floor.
For a moment, it feels like I’m not held captive by a twisted monster on another plane of reality but a star in some dark and exciting movie.
My mind still drifts back to my tiny apartment, and nostalgia is as powerful as at the beginning of that mess. Yet I do not allow myself to succumb to sadness. I am the main character of my life now; not my miserable upbringing, regrets, or fear of the outside world and losing control. It’s me who makes decisions now, not the circumstances of my past.
It turns out, thrill and risks are not as deadly as I thought. I chuckle at the thought that I was nervous to email my boss just a month ago and that yesterday, I defeated a bloodthirsty undead monster, chopping off its head as if it were a routine task.
I stretch on the satin sheets with a smile. The realization of that hidden power, of strength and resilience I have never suspected I possess, fills me with confidence.
Come what may, I’m ready to face it.
Fate responds to my challenge immediately. I hear a knock on my door.
Before I can react, a tall, winged figure stands in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame.
Did Cyrell call him by his real name?
“Dairell?” A fleeting smile curls his lips when he hears his name. He’s wearing all black today, the tailored suit diving from his broad chest and shoulders to his narrow hips. Soft breeches hug his muscled thighs. My eyes wander back up to his face and find him grinning, dark strands that escaped his casual man bun framing the hard lines of his jaw. I avert my gaze quickly, but it’s too late. He seems pleased with my attention.
“We will have dinner in the hall. You have ten minutes to get ready.” This is not a request but an order; I know better than to challenge him.
To my horror, he strolls in and makes himself comfortable in the velvet chair beside the fireplace. Face leaned on his palm, he watches my struggle with amusement.
“It’s already nine minutes, Celeste. When your time is up, I will drag you to the dining hall, dressed or not.” His deep voice rumbles a warning, and I know he will do it.
I know I am dressed in rags, so I wrap the silky sheet around me and slip into the chamber behind the screen. It is a bathroom, as expected, and I’m grateful to find it similar to those in our world. There’s a shower built into the flawless marble walls, and I gratefully rub myself with the sweetly scented oils I find.
My hair is still dripping when I sit at the vanity table loaded with hairbrushes and flasks. I don’t waste time wondering whom they belong to, as Dairell announces, “Four minutes!”
I quickly brush my hair and slip into a soft, green, strapped dress that flows to the floor. Twirling in front of the mirror, I scrutinize my reflection. It’s not bad for someone held captive by a demon prince, someone who was tortured and killed a zombie.
Something in his eyes changes when I emerge from behind the silk screen. Yet he blinks it away, and that spark of warmth is gone so fast that I think I imagined it.
The prince rises to his feet and turns to the door lazily, the shadows of his wings swallowing the flickering reflections of the fireplace, “Follow me, Celeste.”
Strolling through scarcely lit stairways and mazes of passageways, we reach a door covered in peeling gold varnish.
Heavy chandeliers shed warm light over the crystal glasses and delicate china dishes loaded with unfamiliar fruits, cheese, and pastries. The aroma of freshly roasted meat tickles my nose, and I drool. When was the last time I had a proper meal? And who prepared all this, as I haven’t seen anyone here except Dairell and the Black Guardians.
He gestures to me to sit, and I sink into the heavy chair, the tapestry brocade scratching through the fine fabric of my dress. The table stretches into an endless decadent hall, only our corner blessed with light.
A crystal decanter levitates toward me as if held by invisible hands. The prince fills his plate, oblivious to the floating flask that gracefully pours amber liquid into my glass.
“I know that you prefer more intense liquor,” he declares smugly from his seat ten feet away. I struggle to appear unimpressed and focus on my food, ignoring how various objects gain a mind of their own and float over the table, rushing to assist him.
“Salt,” he commands, and an ivory-colored salt shaker takes off before me and lands into his outstretched hand.
I mimic his move and softly request water, hoping he won’t hear me. A heavy pitcher clumsily rises and hurries my way, spilling some of its contents over the roast. Dark, glossy strands veil Dairell´s face, and I cannot see his reaction, but I hear a muffled chuckle.
A few more experiments with levitating cutlery among the awkward silences, and the dinner is over. The prince looms over me, then escorts me to my room without saying a word.
I follow him through the dark labyrinth, heart pounding wildly. Will he try to… tap into my powers? Or is he planning another horrible experiment?
Am I looking forward to that?
I squeeze my thighs, remembering the bliss I’ve experienced in the arms of Tarcyll and Diaphonus, the mad desire of the rough mating with Cyrell.
Would it be different with the most powerful male in Faëheim?
