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The pain in my body, the all-encompassing ache, the dizziness. The sickening pain in my head. It has happened before.
I’m shirtless, pant-less, only dressed in my briefs, and I have scratches down my back, my arms, my chest.
No, not scratches. Cuts.
Over the ink.
Over the scars it hides.
My thoughts lurch. The room tilts. I find myself in a dungeon where flames jump, where demons with curved knives stalk around me, cutting me, burning me…
And another memory comes, brand new, of Ophelia over me, her nails strangely long and sharp, smiling down at me, saying, “Repent and be forgiven, demon.” Her face is twisted, her eyes glowing, her breasts bare. “You have many sins. Suffer for them and be saved.”
Then raking those nails over me, again and again, as I try to howl and fail, my voice gone, my back arched, every part of me on fire. Actual fire, jumping flames dragged out of me, my magic gaping like an open wound—
I find myself on my knees on the floor, heaving. What the fuck?
What in the actual fuck?
Getting up from the floor, I snort. Be saved? Haha. Very funny. There is no such thing as salvation for me, no matter how much pain I take, how much I repent.
What did she do to me? Is the memory real? Did she really use her fucking nails, or was it a blade? I don’t trust these memories; they feel like drugged dreams where everything is twisted and mutated. But when I pass a hand over my chest and lift it, I find blood.
I turn toward the bed. My sheets are soaked. Fuckinghell. She cut me up. As punishment for defying her. She’s insane. She’s…
Oh fuck… The pain in my head returns, black fucking claws scraping at the inside of my skull until I think it’s going to explode. My skin ripples with scales, my joints hurt. I struggle with the shift, fighting it until I slump sideways against the leg of the bed, gritting my teeth.
Then it’s over, my thoughts dissolving into thin air, going up in flames, my head empty. Sweat is cooling on my skin, pooling in the hollow of my collarbone. My cheek is pressed to the carpet, and I’m clutching the goddamn bedframe like I’m about to sink through the floor.
And then my door bangs.
No, someone is banging a fist on it and another déjà vu hits me—didn’t I bang on someone’s door just yesterday, found them on the bed—?
“Open the door!” someone yells.
My head pulses with pain. Ow, okay. No thinking for a bit. Got it.
More banging. “Rys! Are you okay?”
“Jason?” Frowning, I try to lever myself up. I’m like a newborn colt, trying to stand on untested legs. “No.”
But he rattles the handle and then kicks it, breaking it from the sound of splintering wood, and swinging it open. “Rys.”
“What the fuck?” I grumble. “You broke my door?”
“I’ll fix it for ya. I felt—” He stops, his eyes bugging out of his head. “Man, you’re bleeding.”
“Done bleeding, actually. All good now.” I’m still trying to get up. “So fuck off.”
He doesn’t budge. “I felt your magic flare, felt that you were in pain—”
“I said go away.”
Still he doesn’t leave. Instead he walks inside, the fucking twit. “Dammit, Rys, what did you say to Ophelia? You know better than that. When will you learn to at least pretend obedience?”
“I won’t obey her.” I hiss as I try again to get my feet under me. “Fucking can’t. I’m not a slave. I don’t know how to be one.”
“Unlike me, you mean?” His lip curls as he comes to stand over me. “A slave in the vampire court, used to bowing my head and taking it?”
