Chapter 20: Elira's Voice
Elira
They told me I was going to be honored.
"Chosen," they whispered, brushing the knots from my hair, smearing my lips with crushed berries, powdering my cheeks until I looked more porcelain than girl.
They dressed me in starlight.
Black tulle laced with garnet thread. A gown meant to glide, not walk. Meant for show, not comfort.
They told me nothing else.
But I knew.
I knew from the moment the carriage door shut behind me and the sound of the outside world disappeared.
I had been sold.
Not for coin.
Not for favor.
But for what lay between my legs.
My stepmother didn't cry when she handed me over.
She didn't hold me.
She didn't lie.
She just said, "Your father was always weak where you were concerned. Temptation doesn't belong in a family."
Then she turned and walked away.
And the gates of the Court of Thorns opened like a mouth ready to devour me.
The air inside the castle was perfumed with jasmine and decay.
The kind of scent that settles in your skin and doesn't leave.
Silken women guided me to a marble chamber. They undressed me slowly, like I might shatter. Like they were sorry.
They didn't say so.
But I saw it in their eyes.
Pity.
Regret.
And something else—relief that they weren't me.
They bathed me in scented oils, trimmed and painted, perfumed and powdered.
When I looked into the mirror, I saw a ghost.
Beautiful. Fragile. Terrified.
The ballroom doors opened with a groan, and the music hit me first.
Low, humming. Not cheerful—something minor, slithering.
Hundreds of eyes turned toward me.
They didn't blink.
Vampires. Courtiers. Elders.
All dressed in crimson, black, and gold. Their masks bone and blood and silk.
Their smiles… sharp.
I walked forward on shaking legs.
A servant guided me to the long banquet table. Velvet cushions. Gold cutlery. Crystal goblets.
The food was lush. Glazed meats, dark berries, bloodwine.
Everything glowed under the chandelier light.
I didn't touch any of it.
I couldn't.
I sat between a woman in rubies and a man who never stopped staring at my neck.
Neither spoke to me.
But Shiva, the High Lady of the South, raised her glass across the table.
She smiled.
And I tried to smile back.
Because what else was I supposed to do?
Run?
No doors.
No guards.
But no escape either.
I was in the mouth of the monster now.
And then he stood.
Vasilios.
Lord of the Court.
The man who hadn't looked at me once.
Until that moment.
When his gaze found me—hungry, curious, and utterly still—I stopped breathing.
He moved with impossible grace. Like the air parted for him. Like the floor bowed beneath his steps.
He walked to me.
And offered his hand.
I took it.
Because I was already his.
The music faded.
The courtiers stilled.
My gown fell like spilled ink to the floor.
I was bare beneath it.
Of course I was.
They had prepared me.
He didn't say a word as I was led to the center of the table.
The ropes were soft.
The cuffs warm with magic.
They didn't chafe.
Not unless I pulled.
So I didn't.
Not at first.
The table was set like an altar.
Oils. Wine. Salts.
My skin was dusted, anointed, painted in symbols I didn't understand.
They murmured in a language I didn't know.
They said I was marked.
That my bloodline was pure.
That my offering would bring power.
I didn't know if they meant my death or something worse.
My thighs trembled.
My breath turned ragged.
I tried to speak, but my mouth wouldn't open.
Only my eyes pleaded.
And even they went ignored.
Vasilios stepped forward.
His gaze roamed over my body—not like a man hungry, but like a scholar assessing his scripture.
"You may scream," he said. "But you will not beg."
Then his hand slid down my leg.
His fingers found the center of me.
They did not ask permission.
They pressed, and I gasped.
Not in pain.
In knowing.
My body knew before my mind did.
This was the beginning.
Not the worst of it.
Not yet.
When he tasted my blood, the room exhaled.
The ceremony began.
Shiva was the first.
She climbed onto the table, bare save for her rubies, and knelt at my side. Her fingers dipped in bloodwine. She fed me from her hand.
"Open," she whispered.
I did.
She smiled.
She slid those same fingers into my mouth, into my throat.
And I let her.
Not because I wanted to.
Because I was afraid not to.
Marek's tongue followed.
Between my legs. Over my thighs. Into me.
His mouth didn't just lick—it praised.
My body shook.
I sobbed.
Not from pain.
Not from pleasure.
But from the fracture of both.
I remember hands. Too many to count.
Tongues.
Voices.
Teeth.
Praise like prayer.
Pain like worship.
They adored me.
They destroyed me.
And I became holy in their hunger.
At some point—I stopped crying.
I stopped thinking.
There was only sensation.
Endless.
Pounding.
Deep and slow and hot.
I don't know how long it lasted.
A night.
Two.
More.
I lost track of time.
Of name.
Of thought.
Until Vasilios came to me again.
Later.
When my limbs ached and my skin was stained and my voice was gone.
He sat beside me.
He looked into my eyes and I said one word:
"Amarisa."
I don't know why I said it.
I don't know where I'd heard it.
But it slipped from my lips like blood.
And he stilled.
And that's why I'm still alive.
Not because I mattered.
But because of something I saw.
Someone I dreamed.
A girl with hazel-green eyes and caramel skin.
A girl who trembles the way I did.
A girl who is marked.
And doesn't know it yet.