I fought. I clawed at his face, at his hair. I tried in vain to pull free, but at the end of a few seconds I moved no longer – my arms grew limp, tired – not from fighting, but from losing the substance that kept them stiff. Inevitably they fell on my sides, I couldn't resist it anymore. Still, I felt him clearly: his arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me against his torso, his free hand gently immobilizing my face, pulling it to the side by my jaw with a smooth and yet inflexible grip that left exposed my neck, his area of interest, in a way I could offer no resistance. I felt his hair against me, his pale skin, his perfume… and most poignantly, his teeth: Having pierced me, they throbbed inside the tender flesh at the base of my neck – or rather, my flesh throbbed around them, the muscles there tensing, rejecting the invasion, fighting but failing to do anything other than inflict me greater pain. It grew in intensity, until it felt like the Duke had bitten a nerve, or a tendon – some vital cord or skeletal string that controlled the movements of my body, hindering them, rendering me immobilized with the exception of an occasional spasm of my muscles when he moved slightly, shifting his weight as he drank noisily from me. I could hear it – the blood being sucked into his mouth, then swallowed. I could feel the movement of his neck against my back – his Adam's apple moving up and down as he gulped, consuming me. It gave me a pang of humiliation, it made me enraged in my impotence… and I guess such rage only made my blood run faster, hotter, maybe even tastier somehow, for he'd moan as my heart pounded in my chest. He'd moan as if he couldn't resist himself, and I'd feel it escape me in gushes – my blood.
My extremities were starting to tingle. My eyes were growing heavy, drowsy, sleepy, and as he drank, the more he'd stand up straight, and the more he'd pull me from my feet, until I was suspended in his arms, nearly fainting. At length he yanked himself from me and gasped, as if awakening himself from some sort of trance. He clicked his mouth, he swallowed and he groaned as he licked his lips and cleared his palate. His breathing was hard and haggard, slowly recovering…
Gently, then, he put me down on my feet. They wouldn't hold: my knees were wobbly, they folded under me and I collapsed to the floor, on his feet. My heavy head found support on his knees for a humiliating second – I willed it away, I pulled strength from god knows where to wrench myself from him and drag my body further from his touch, from his shadow. Taking some distance, I stared into his eyes, angry and sore: they stared me back, their blue color glowing brighter, more alert… thrilled with a lingering pleasure.
"Look at you…" he gasped for air still. "You can barely stand!" His lips were red with blood – their image perturbed me. Following my gaze and guessing what it was I observed with such horror, he quickly wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Then, he pulled his hair back, adjusted the collar of his gown, brushed himself off. "I suggest you eat…" was his final demand, an unapologetic excuse to my current state.
…But I was no longer afraid of him. The horror had come and passed, and it seemed there was nothing else he could do to me, not for the day. I gazed deeply into his eyes and I frowned, I scowled as hard as I could, until my forehead ached, hoping I could fully express the hatred I had for him at that moment. He waited for me to be done – patiently so, merely regarding my expression from a far superior height; but this time his patience didn't seem born out of kindness, but out of contempt. Yes… he looked down at me not with pity, not with contrition or regret, but some sort of disdain for my animosity, for the hatred I directed him. His mute, patient stare belittled my passion as a small spectacle at best, and I knew he was right: what harm could I possibly cause him, in my current state or even in my strongest? Him, a man – no, a demon! -whom an army of a hundred could not destroy… Still, the reflection on my helplessness only made me scowl harder. Having watched and catalogued my countenance, as if saving it for a later reflection on how to best punish my impudence and earn my respect, my submission, or whatever it was he realistically craved, he exhaled, satisfied after all:
"Now, If you'll excuse me, I have somewhere to be." Untroubled, he gave me a last determined stare from his superior height - superior too in spirit - before turning and walking out, leaving me on the floor to fume my last bits of energy away.
When he was too far gone to see me, I collapsed on the chilly polished marble floor, my body crumbling away, my pride still intact. I didn't faint, but I didn't move either. I didn't move for well over an hour. After that time, a small commission comprised of a young man and four maids marched into my chamber in a very official formation – the formality of which was promptly broken when someone spotted me on the floor: Babble ensued, and the four women ran towards me in swift but short steps – their length hindered by the heels they wore on their feet. Their hands were on me, tapping, moving me, demanding an answer in their strange tongue. The unintelligible sound annoyed my ears.
"Who is it this time?" a familiar accent spoke from a distance: the boy. He broke them apart to reach me. As he crouched down, he frowned, a look of disgust. "Ugh! Is she even alive? Why do I always have to clean up this disgusting mess? I'd stop the bleeding but… No, I'm not touching any demon's saliva! Freeda! Gerda!-" and he instructed them in their language, probably urging they apply pressure to my wound, because that's what they did - mercilessly. I barked with pain.
"Oh! She's alive!" and he repeated the constatation in their mother tongue, at which point the four of them started hoisting me up clumsily. I moaned and protested, unwilling to carry my own weight.
"They'll get you cleaned up!" The boy translated in a soothing attempt, and as they pulled me to my feet, he gasped, startled. I looked up lazily, only to see him take a step back and goggle at me with stupefied eyes. "Oh my God!" he stuttered "Y-you're Princess Evelynne!"