Her muffled voice leaked out, distorted by the gag in her mouth. Ilion shook the iron bars, but they only rattled, securely locked.

“What is this…”

His voice quavered as a mixture of rage and desperation surged through him. His chest ached as he reached through the bars and gently brushed his hand across her cheek, streaked with tears and s*men.

“How fitting for—”

“Ugh!”

Before the count could finish, Ilion’s anger erupted, cutting him off.

The count’s smug whisper and the grin that played on his lips were enough to break Ilion’s restraint. Without realising it, he grabbed the count by the collar and slammed him against the wall. His grip tightened as the count’s feet left the floor.

“Cough. Acting like that – you know very well who will suffer the consequences, don’t you?”

The count’s voice remained calm, his grin unshaken, as if he still held the upper hand. The cold rage in Ilion’s mind slowly froze.

“Ha… Ugh…”

Cyrene’s soft whimper echoed through the air. Ilion slowly released his grip. Short of openly defying the imperial family, there was only one person who could save Cyrene from this hell.

The count’s feet touched the ground again and he coughed deliberately, accompanied by a mocking laugh. Ilion took a step back, then another until he turned sharply and left the room. Whatever the crown prince demanded, whatever the cost, Ilion would beg, barter or sacrifice whatever it took to get Cyrene back.

***

Cyrene stood awkwardly in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection. She couldn’t even remember the last time she had worn clothes. Not since she had been thrown into the basement, where even a single day of wearing anything was out of the question.

How many days had passed?

Cyrene stared blankly at the two maids dressing her. They worked in silence, their lips tightly shut, not even the sound of their breathing audible as they focused solely on their task.

“Um…”

Speaking felt strange, almost foreign. For so long, the only words she had uttered were moans, cries of “Master,” or desperate apologies for imagined wrongdoings.

Even at the sound of her weak voice, the maids didn’t look in her direction. She turned her eyes back to the mirror. The blue bruises on her cheeks had been covered with make-up, and the whip marks and scratches on her br*ast were hidden beneath the high neckline of her dress.

“That’s enough.”

Said the Count, waving his hand dismissively with a frown. The maids left the room quietly, as if they’d never been there.

Where would she be taken? To the ‘party’ the Crown Prince had mentioned? Or somewhere else entirely?

If only she could see Ilion.

She couldn’t tell if the sight of Ilion had been a dream or reality. She thought she had caught a glimpse of golden hair through the bars. The rough hand that had touched her cheek had felt so real, but when she blinked it was gone.

Cyrene was once again pushed into a carriage. This one, as before, was completely covered in black fabric. Opposite her sat a man who looked completely fed up, his arms crossed in irritation.

“…Behave yourself.”

“Yes.”

Behave? More than this? How?

Cyrene lowered her head slightly, her neatly brushed hair slipping down with a soft rustle. How long had it been since she had been properly washed? It felt surreal that her hair was now smooth and clean, after being drenched in sweat and s*men for so long.

“Remember who your master is. You’d do well to keep that in mind.”

He seemed anxious, restless. Cyrene stared blankly at the slight movement of the count’s polished shoes. A shiver ran through her at the memory of how mercilessly those very shoes had trampled her. She lowered her gaze further and fixed it on her hands. Her fingernails were in terrible shape, a mess at the ends.

Had she scraped them too hard against the stone floor? Her fingertips felt rough when she touched them. Cyrene’s mind wandered to Ilion. Had he really come to see her?

She wished she were going to meet Ilion.

A faint, bitter smile crept onto her lips. After traveling for some time, the carriage stopped at a place she recognized.

“…What?”

The crown prince’s palace. The place where she had spent most of her life. Tears welled up unexpectedly. She had never realised how happy she had been here until it was taken away from her.

As her eyes reddened, the count pulled her roughly.

“Let’s finish this quickly.”

He moved forward hastily, dragging her with him. Cyrene struggled to keep up, her breath coming short as she followed his brisk footsteps. The count, looking as if something was following him, came to an abrupt halt in front of the Crown Prince’s office. He took a deep breath before exhaling.

He turned to Cyrene, staring at her intently. His lips parted as if to say something, but he shook his head instead.

“Your Highness.”

“Come in.”

A familiar voice came from inside. Cyrene lowered her head deeply. Although he had abandoned her, the days spent with the count had painfully taught her what Areos truly meant to her.

Tears filled her eyes. The Count of Katara looked at her and grabbed her arm.

“…Don’t cry.”

She instinctively understood the unspoken words that followed. It was a warning—don’t cry if you don’t want to be treated worse than an animal again.

Cyrene tried desperately to swallow her tears, but it wasn’t as easy as she hoped.

“Your Highness, it’s been a while since we’ve last met.”

“It has.”

The answer was indifferent, almost dismissive. Cyrene felt an overwhelming urge to throw herself at Areos’ feet, to beg him not to abandon her, to plead that she couldn’t bear it. But she remembered only too well how he had mercilessly pushed her away the first time she had begged him, discarding her as if she were something worthless.

“Come here.”

The low, familiar voice made her instinctively take a step forward, but she stopped. Glancing back at the count, he gave a subtle nod.

“Your Highness.”

She murmured, holding back the sobs that threatened to escape. She pushed all her emotions down, choking on them, as if even the humiliating position of standing between his legs again might feel like a comfort now.

“You begged for it so desperately, so I gave it to you. Surely you’ve made good use of it?”

Areos’s fingers lightly touched her chin, tilting her head up slightly. He turned her face this way and that, studying her. She caught the faint movement of his eyebrows.

Was he about to get angry?

His displeasure was obvious. As Cyrene winced, Areos pulled out a handkerchief and scrubbed roughly at her cheek. The harsh friction made her skin burn, but she endured it. By the time she had swallowed her rising whimper three times, the heavy layer of make-up had been wiped away, revealing the blue bruise on her cheek in stark clarity.

“…Count.”

“A dog that doesn’t recognize its master needs discipline, don’t you think?”

Cyrene glanced at Areos’ face before quickly shifting her gaze to the count. It was clear who had more power. And if someone was going to play the role of “God” in her life, she’d rather it was Areos. At least with him she would not have to endure the humiliation of s*x with a beast. She’d have nice clothes, good food and a comfortable bed.

Her thoughts drifted to the scars etched across her body. If he disliked her injuries, wouldn’t he dislike all of her now?

“Isn’t your discipline a bit excessive?”

“She seemed slow to understand her change in ownership. Perhaps I went a bit too far.”

Areos’s fingertips brushed against her bruised cheek.

“Ah, it hurts.”

Cyrene murmured instinctively.

The sharp gaze of the count immediately bore down on her. Panic surged through her, and with trembling hands, she began to hastily undo her clothes.

“Cyrene.”

Areos’ voice, grim and restrained, reached her ears, but she couldn’t stop. If she couldn’t express her own anger, she desperately wanted Areos to get angry for her. Though she told herself to ignore it, her trembling hands betrayed her.

Was it the fear that had seeped into her bones after the days spent in the Count’s presence?

“Sniff… hic…”

The knots wouldn’t come undone. Her fingers fumbled helplessly, missing their mark, and tears welled up in her eyes. A few tears spilled over, leaving round marks on her br*ast.

“…”

Areos threw the pen he had been holding onto the desk before starting to undo her clothes himself. He loosened the tightly tied strings and unbuttoned each button one by one.

“It hurts, Your Highness. It hurts so much.”

Cyrene managed to say, her voice trembling. It was the only thing she could express.

As the fabric parted, her reddened, bruised skin became visible beneath the thin cloth. From up close, she could see Areos’s face harden, his jaw clenching.

“What is this?”

“…Just a few marks left behind, nothing more.”

The sharp sound of tearing fabric echoed as the dress was roughly torn apart. Left in a thin chemise, Cyrene lifted the hem herself. Areos grabbed her shoulders and turned her around. She could feel his gaze linger on her utterly ravaged back.

She caught a glimpse of the count biting his lip, his grey eyes blazing with barely contained rage. It was then that she realised that if she returned with him, she wouldn’t survive unscathed.