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Warmth. Softness.

You are encased in plush heat, from head to toe. Cocooned in the tranquility of a familiar silk, like a caterpillar. It is so soothing, so secure.

Unwelcome awareness slowly seeps into your mind, rousing you from your slumber.

Letting out a drowsy sigh, you wiggle your feet a little to feel the rose-petal softness flow like warm water over your legs. Your eyelids flutter lightly before you decide to shutter them closed again, unwilling to acknowledge anything but the cocoon of comfort that cradles you like a cloud.

Several languid minutes later, you crack an eye and take in the wavering firelight that flickers off the walls of your room. It occurs to you to worry that you may have overslept, but you defiantly burrow deeper, unwilling to break the spell yet.

You wonder if this is why it takes caterpillars so long to emerge- it's easy to imagine they likely have their lacy little wings long before they break free of their chrysalises.

The silence in your tiny space is peaceful, filled only with the steady cadence of your breathing and the distant crackle of flame. After enduring the nightmare of the brothel and living in cramped squalor with only the sounds of agonized moans and screams to lull you to sleep, you've finally been gifted with solitude and silence.

You doze on and off, up to your nose in the silken bliss you've tightly wound yourself in, dreaming of lakes of fire and ancient gods of stone, crumbling within a wasteland as they are forgotten by time. Feeling yourself falling into oblivion, you jolt awake.

While your heart rate stabilizes, anxiety creeps in with spider-like fingers and prods you into a greater state of awareness.

What if you are late for your duties?

Reluctantly giving in to it, you sleepily stir with a groan.

Propping yourself up on your elbows, an ache in your core rips through the pleasant fog with a bolt of violence. Through bared teeth you hiss and wince, willing yourself to sit up further.

Your lips curve downward into a puzzled frown. 'What the Hell?'

Naked. You are completely naked.

Why...?

Eyes darting around the room, you search for something which may help jog your memory.

But at the moment, you are drawing a total blank on the past twenty-four hours.

Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, the ache in your core flares to life with an insistent throb.

Why does...that hurt? A few locks of golden hair spill over your eyes as you lean over and gently explore yourself.

You hiss in pain; you are terribly tender- the inner folds feel sort of... bruised?

'Oh no...no, no, nonono...'

Such an ache is unsettling in its familiarity- it plagued you after each client you endured in the brothel. A faint, cold tingle of fear makes your cheeks go numb.

Gripping the corner of the nightstand to steady yourself, you tentatively rise to your feet.

Anxiety piles on, higher and heavier as your arms, legs and back cry out in strained protest, more so than usual after a day of bending and stooping to clean the Tomb. In fact, you feel as though you've been violently pummeled, like tenderized meat.

"What the Hell did I do last night?" You mutter to yourself as you groggily shuffle towards the bathroom.

Rounding the corner, you come face-to-face with your reflection in the bathroom mirror and your world shrinks dizzyingly to a pinpoint as a gasp of shock bursts from your lungs.

Splotchy bruises of red and purple bloom lividly to adorn your throat and collarbone like visceral jewelry, and you begin to shake.

Sagging against the door frame, you can see your eyes blow wide as they rake over the gruesome color palette of the marks in utter disbelief. All are ovular and scored with puncture wounds.

Fangs.

Your broken cry shatters the fragile silence as a wave of icy dread crashes over you. Nailing your eyes to your reflection, you slowly slip two digits through your folds, spreading yourself so that you can see.

Other than a bit of swelling, everything looks relatively normal.

Still, that offers little relief in light of all other evidence. You are no stranger to bruises of this nature- they indisputably indicate carnal relations.

'How did I get back to my room, and how in the Hell did I get these...?!'

Dejectedly tearing your gaze away from your reflection, your eyes shutter closed as you try to recall something, anything that may have happened before this morning. But looming in place of your memory is nothing but swarming darkness.

You don't believe you drank anything, nor do you remember taking any potions, so there is no reason why you shouldn't be able to recall the night before.

This doesn't make any sense! You thought you were getting better!

With a shake of your head, you draw a couple of deep breaths, trying to silence the ringing in your ears brought about by spiraling anxiety.

'You know how these happened. There is only one explanation.' The cruel voice of logic gnaws at your denial.

Leaning over the marble sink, you curve your neck to the side and gingerly press at the tender bruises, then draw back to meet your anguished stare once more. As time ticks by, the silence grows needle-like claws that sink into your mind, sowing an unsettling disquiet.

Shaking fingers fumble with the faucet handles, then you cup your hands to collect from the running spout and splash water over your face. Glaring back at your reflection, you watch droplets stream down the divots and curves of your features like spilling tears.

The primal fear in your eyes is accompanied by a murky wave of self-loathing... self-loathing and rage.

'I don't want to be a victim anymore.'

With a scoff of disgust, you reject the haunted expression you wear and resign yourself to the shower, desperate for a wash.

Your body is operating solely on autopilot as you lather up a loofah, and your mind works overtime cross-examining every fragmented memory of the past twenty-four hours, putting each under the microscope for clues as to your current state.

A sigh of relief gusts over your lips as hot water washes over you, soothing the ache in your muscles and sapping away some of your tension. When you grip the slippery bar of soap, the sensation of your hands sliding over a slick slab of chilled meat glimmers through your mind.

'That's right...' You held it in place on the cutting board to saw off a filet.

But your victory is short-lived as you suddenly recall rivulets of ruby streaming over your fingers, triggering the disturbing flashback of your final night in the brothel; your nails raking at that monster's face, how you made him scream, how his fear and pain made you feel so... powerful.

"Are you alright, dear?" Pestonya noticed how you had fallen into a trauma-induced trance, and was so sweet as to offer to take over and finish cooking for you, but you had declined out of fear of being alone with your thoughts.

At some point you and the head maid had a conversation about Wagyu, and then you carried the plate of steak to your Master's quarters... but after that, nothing.

Do you have a concussion? Is that why you have such a massive gap in your memory? Carding your fingers through your sopping hair, you blindly feel for tender spots on your scalp. But nothing on your head is particularly sore, no lumps nor abrasions.

And yet, you can't help but feel that cold stone of dread settling heavily into your stomach, sending a ripple of dark disturbance throughout your entire being that screams something is terribly, terribly wrong.

You shut the water off and step out, feeling a tad bit better- refreshed, if nothing else. But what are you going to do about the horrific marks on your neck? Leaving your room looking like this will result in nothing but awkward stares and uncomfortable questions which you are currently incapable of answering.

'Damn it...' You had just recovered from the bruises you arrived with, and now you are sporting a fresh new set.

The cabinet yields a luxuriously plush towel which you use to dry off with, and you then sit on the edge of the shower, wrapped in the flimsy sense of security it provides while you contemplate your next move.

Rummaging through the drawer beneath the sink, you find the container of creamy foundation. Dredging your digits through it, you dab a generous amount over the gruesome bites and use a fluffy brush to seamlessly even out the hue using soft little stipples. While the shadows of the marks still bleed through the pale veil, they're mere ghosts of the horror that marred your skin before.

Silently thanking the gods for make-up, you fluff your hair around your neck, effectively hiding the majority of the bruises.

With a sigh, you mutter, "It'll have to do."

You abandon the bathroom and head for the closet, and pull out a clean uniform. As you slip into it, you adjust your skirt, and a flash of memory skates across your mind- of having your skirt rucked up around your hips.

You freeze.

Your skirt was shoved up as your thighs cinched tightly around a narrow waist, your hands immobilized above your head by a living shadow.

A bestial snarl, and the deliciously decadent wet spurt of liquid warmth flooded your passage.

Your eyes fly wide open, and your back stiffens ramrod-straight as the missing memory slots into place like a piece to a jigsaw puzzle.

Crystalline eyes flare white-hot in your mind's eye, and it feels as though the breath has been crushed from your lungs as you are suddenly flooded with recollection.

"To be blunt, it means I own you. Like a pet, you are mine to play with and _stroke_when I please." His low, intimate purr bleeds darkly like a blot of ink spreading through your mind, and the phantom of savage rapture ripples through you.

'Oh, gods...'

You collapse to your knees, eyes staring unseeing at the floor, the seconds crawling by like years as cold, fluid dread replaces all the blood in your veins.

Strong hands grasp your hips and a hot tongue swipes through your folds.

The agonizing temptation accompanies the hard, heated press of his body.

The damnation of each sinuous, addictive stroke of him sliding inside, and you can hear yourself moan in raw desperation, pleading for more of the depraved thing he was doing.

"No..." You had resisted him... at first.

"Yes. You don't have a choice in the matter."

You let out a choked, dry sob of frustration. It's beyond fucked up, the way he puppeteered your body--the way every inch of your skin alighted with the brush of his fingers and the scorching wet lash of his tongue. Your channel clenches pleasurably, treacherously at the memory.

He's done... something to you, that much you are sure of, to make you feel such a way.

This alien desire cannot possibly be your own.

Only one thought is orbiting your mind, round and round, like a carousel of anxiety.

Escape.

It is all you can think to do, the only remedy for the existential fear roiling, churning into a heavy, dark brew in your gut. If you cannot escape your own body's treason, perhaps you can escape him.

To where you would run, you haven't the faintest idea. But fight or flight demands action, to remove yourself from the potentially dangerous situation, and knowing you are beyond out-muscled, fight is out of the question.

'I won't be anyone's plaything ever again.' You adamantly swear, and it twists thorny vines around your heart that the raw carnality, the very idea of being his Pet somehow still sends a foreign thrill laced with despair racing through you, which you hastily bury. 'I won't break. Not for him, not for anyone.'

Steeling your spine and fortifying your heart, you pull yourself off the floor and finish dressing. You decide you will spend the rest of the day planning while you work.

Quietly, you slip out of your room, and from down the hall the multi-faceted eyes of the dragons carved into the doors of Lord Demiurge's quarters sparkle at you, as though volunteering a solution to your predicament.

'A single one of those gems would pay my way anywhere.'

Stealing a knife from the kitchen to pry one out and trying to find an exit to the Tomb seems to be your best option. However, the only window on this Floor that you know of is in your Master's bedroom, and there is no way in Hell you will risk being caught in there when it is outside permitted hours.

You'll have to find another exit.