By the tenth, I couldn't remember what my own voice sounded like.
Now, I can barely remember being anyone other than this. The girl in the tower. The sleeping beauty. His treasure. His Adelaide.
He's had fifty years to learn.
The ridges catch and drag, and I feel a spark of pleasure shoot through me despite everything. Despite the darkness. Despite the prison of my own body. Despite the fact that he just described murdering someone who came to save me.
This morning—was it morning? I think it was morning, that's what the dragon told me. He bathed me. He always bathes me. Warm water, scented with lavender and rose. He washes every inch of me with those massive, clawed hands, so gentle, so thorough. He talks to me the whole time.
"Your skin is so soft today, treasure. I think the new soap is working well. Do you like it? I hope you like it."
I wanted to like it. I wanted to hate that I liked it. The warm water, the gentle touch, the care in every movement. He washes my hair, works the tangles out with infinite patience, dries me with soft towels that he warms by the fire first.
He dresses me like I'm a doll. A living doll that he can pose and arrange. Today it was the blue silk nightgown, the one that makes my skin look like honey, he said. He brushed my hair. One hundred strokes. He always does one hundred strokes.
"So beautiful," he murmured with each pass of the brush. "My beautiful Adelaide. My perfect treasure."
And I felt... something. Pleasure at the praise. Warmth at being called beautiful. The satisfaction of being cared for.
I hate that I felt those things.
He's fully inside me now, and he stops. He always stops. He doesn't rut into me like an animal. That would be easier to hate. Instead, he just stays there, buried deep, his massive cock stretching me, filling me so completely I can barely breathe.
A prince. There was a prince today. I heard the commotion, heard the shouting, heard the clash of steel, could feel that the dragon was outside. Then silence. Then him, returning to me, blood still on his claws.
"Another one," he said, settling beside me on the bed, running those bloody claws through my hair. "Another fool who thought he could take you from me. He had a whole speech prepared. About true love's kiss. About breaking the curse. About carrying you away to his kingdom."
He laughed. Actually laughed.
"I pulled his intestines out while he was still alive. Used them to strangle him. Do you know how long intestines are, Adelaide? So long. He kept trying to push them back in, kept begging. Actually cried. Begged me to kill him quickly."
And I felt... what? Horror, yes. Revulsion, absolutely. But also... also...
Relief.
Relief that the prince was dead. Relief that no one would take me away. Relief that I would stay here, with him, where it's safe and warm and I'm cared for.
What does that make me?
What have I become?
I love it. I hate it.
I love him. I hate him.
I want him to leave me alone forever. I want him to never leave me.
The contradictions are tearing me apart. Or maybe they're the only thing holding me together. Maybe without these fractured, impossible feelings, there would be nothing left of me at all.
I feel his weight settle over me. Feel his tail wrap around my leg like a shackle. Feel his clawed hand find my breast, my nipple, rolling it between his fingers with a gentleness that makes me want to weep.
He knows exactly how I like to be touched.
Because I do like it. That's the horror of it. My body likes it. And somewhere, in some dark corner of my mind that I don't want to examine too closely, I like it too.
He plays lazily with my clit. It feels like torture. It feels like heaven. I wish I could push against his hand and deepen the pressure. I can tell he's not going to let me come tonight. That feels just as torturous as him bringing me to orgasm.
The wanting is its own kind of prison. Wanting to move. Wanting to speak. Wanting to come. Wanting him to stop. Wanting him to never stop.
