..Slaves Perspective start of day..
The pet awoke before dawn, her body stiff and aching. Her muscles protested as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, but she ignored the discomfort—she had grown used to pain. The room around her was eerily quiet, the air heavy with the faint metallic tang of blood that seemed to linger everywhere in the mansion.
Standing slowly, she crossed to the cracked mirror above the washbasin. She hesitated before looking at her reflection, dreading what she might see. When she finally raised her eyes, she barely recognized herself.
Her skin was pale, almost translucent, with faint veins tracing delicate patterns beneath the surface. Bruises dotted her collarbone and shoulders—shadows left by Lord Varian's cruel hands—and the bite marks on her neck were raw, still oozing slightly.
Her fingers brushed the marks absently, and she winced at the tenderness. The wounds would heal quickly; they always did, but they left scars that told a story she wished she could forget.
Her gaze traveled downward, taking in her slender frame. Despite her injuries, there was still an undeniable beauty to her—stark and haunting. Her brunette hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, framing her face with its sharp cheekbones and full lips. Her emerald-green eyes, though dulled by exhaustion, still shone with a faint fire, a reminder of the spirit she refused to let die.
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She pulled at the thin fabric of her nightgown, revealing the soft curve of her breasts and the bruises that marred her ribcage. Her chest rose and fell with each shallow breath, the tension in her body a constant weight.
Her legs bore the same marks of her captivity—scratches, faint scars, and bruises from years of being used and discarded. Yet even in her battered state, there was a graceful strength in the way she moved, a quiet resilience that refused to bow entirely to the vampires who claimed ownership of her.
She straightened her posture, brushing her hair back from her face. She was still here. She was still alive. And as long as she could stand, there was still a chance for something more.
The door creaked open, breaking her reverie. Two slaves entered, their heads bowed and eyes averted. She recognized them—Number 0847 and Number 1461.
The taller one, 1461, carried a small tray with an iron tablet and a glass of water. "Your supplements, miss," he said quietly, his voice low and devoid of emotion.
She took the tablet, her fingers brushing against his briefly as she accepted the glass of water. She swallowed the pill, the metallic taste spreading across her tongue as she drank.
"Thank you," she murmured, though she knew they weren't supposed to speak.
1461's gaze flicked to her face for the barest moment, his dark eyes meeting hers. There was something in his expression—an unspoken defiance, a flicker of humanity that had not been extinguished by this place.
"Come on," the other slave hissed, pulling at his arm. 1461 lowered his head and followed his companion out of the room, the door shutting heavily behind them.
She turned back to the mirror, her fingers brushing against the bite marks on her neck once more. The fire in her green eyes sparked again, stronger this time.
For all their power, the vampires couldn't take everything from her. Not yet.