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Alina's eyes fluttered open before her mind could decipher where she was or what had happened to her. She was greeted with the gloom of what seemed to be a small subterranean room, carved out of stone. The only light came from a trio of candles held upright by a tabletop candelabra on the other side of the room.
It was then as her eyes became accustomed to the din that she realized, with rising panic, that she was in a cell, most likely deep within the bowels of a dungeon. The iron prison bars a short distance away in front of her, which she could barely make out from the narrow bed she was lying down on, cast threatening shadows on the cold stone wall behind her. With a hoarse and startled cry, she realized that there were a pair of shackles bolted to the walls. It was a room for torture, she thought, with horror, her mind and heart racing at a merciless pace, threatening to shut down. The medium sized table on which the brass candelabra was resting innocently atop could hold all sorts of instruments designed to maim and cause unbearable pain on its rough wooden surface.
Spurred on by a sense of urgency, Alina made to get up but, as feeling returned to her shaking hands, she realized that she was bound to either side of the bed by irons. With great effort, she made to sit up as much as her bonds would allow her and tried desperately to remember how she had come to end up here in the first place.
Her mind flashed back to being wrapped in the Darkling's arms in the chapel after he had stormed on Os Alta and had pursued her and her friends with his nichevo'ya. The memory of her seizing control of his power and shadow soldiers and bringing the whole building down on both of them, in a desperate bid to end both of their lives, resurfaced from the murky and groggy depths of her brain.
Other than her light headedness and disorientation at being in such an unfamiliar place, she felt fine, if not a bit worn out. There was no unbearable pain from any bones that could have been broken or other grievous injuries she should have sustained from being buried under the rubble of a large stone structure. That meant that either she really was a Saint with miraculous healing powers or a healer had attended to her wounds while she was unconscious. The latter, of course, seemed much more likely. The very fact that she was alive, however, meant that she had failed. It also meant, she realized, as a sliver of fear snaked its way up her spine, that the Darkling had most definitely survived as well. They had captured her. She was,most likely, his prisoner.
The place was so gloomy it was starting to hurt her eyes. Her hands were bound but she was sure she would still be able to summon some light to give her a better idea of her surroundings so she could, perhaps, plan a way to escape. However, as she tried to call the light within her, nothing came. Panic, once more, rising like the bile in her throat, she tried again and again to summon but couldn't even muster a tiny speck of light. With dawning horror, she realized that she must be deeper underground than she had originally assumed; far,far away from any sort of sunlight. A sob of hopelessness tore painfully at her dry throat and she willed herself not to burst into tears.
It was then that she heard movement coming from right beyond her cell. Trying her best to hide her fear, she forced her head up and lifted her chin defiantly waiting for whomever it was to come to a halt before the iron bars that separated her from freedom. There were more than one set of footsteps. Two or three people perhaps. Maybe they had all come to interrogate and torture her for what she had done to the Darkling. A chill ran down the length of her body at that thought. She didn't fancy the idea of getting tortured.
To her surprise, it was the Darkling, whole and unscathed, that appeared before her, peering at her coolly through the bars with his quartz grey eyes, flanked by two terrified looking charcoal clad female servants. He slowly slid a key out of the black folds of his kefta and opened the cell, stepping noiselessly into the small room, the servants at his tail. The soft glow from the candlelight illuminated the sharp and beautiful planes of his emotionless face and he slowly made his way to her bedside.
The little bit of confidence she thought she had withered away into nothingness as she stared into those cold, merciless eyes. Swallowing a whimper of fear, she tore her gaze away from him and saw that the two servants rested a metal pitcher and wash basin, along with a wash cloth in the middle of the room. Confused, she watched as the Darkling dismissed them and stride forward, as they hurried out of the cell, to slide the bars closed and turn the key, locking them both inside with a resounding click.
Making his way back to her, he bent forward and unlocked the irons that were holding her in place, without saying a word. Drawing himself to full height, he then continued to stare at her as she rubbed her sore wrists, watching him warily and trying her best not to squirm restlessly under his gaze.
"Get up," he commanded, speaking to her as if she were a dog.
A tinge of annoyance pierced through her fear but she bit her lip and followed his orders, deciding not to take the chance of angering him with a snappy retort. Especially as she couldn't use her powers.
The smooth stone floor felt foreign under her bare feet and she realized, with a start. that she was still wearing the gold kefta she had donned for Nikolai's birthday celebration. Well, what was left of it anyway. It was barely recognizable, covered in dust and littered with frays and tears.
The Darkling gestured to where the pitcher and wash basin lay with a jerk of his head. Alina needed no hint to decipher what he wanted her to do and she swiftly wobbled towards the centre of the room to stand in front of the pitcher and basin, relieved to put some distance between them.
"Strip."
She stared at him in shock and shook her head.
"Are you mad?" she exclaimed, finally finding her voice, "I am not undressing in front of you."
"That wasn't a request," he replied quietly, clenching his jaw, his eyes glinting dangerously.
She narrowed her eyes and again gave a single stubborn shake of her head. However, before she knew it, the man took three swift steps and closed the distance between them. He stepped over the pitcher and she found herself staring up at his face, his hot breath fanning her now flushed cheeks. He unceremoniously grabbed a hold of the stiff material of her kefta and, to her horror, ripped it in half straight down the middle, exposing Morozova's collar, along with her breasts. Without pausing, he peeled the material off her torso, threw it behind her and reached for the thin linen undergarments resting just below her waist, ripping them to pieces and watching, with mild satisfaction, as the white shreds fluttered soundlessly down her shaking legs to rest by her ankles.
As she stood there, fully naked, her head bent in shame, unable to meet his scrutinizing gaze, she tried to fight the strange sensation of heat and longing between her thighs, which had been brought on by his rough and uncaring actions. She realized, with a sense of dread, that this was turning her on. She pressed her thighs together, still willing away her gradually growing desire which became even more of a challenge as her nipples hardened and became more sensitive in the cool air. She wanted badly for him to reach out and caress her increasingly heated skin with his callused hands, but he made no move to do such, content to just stare down at her as she battled with the traitorous reactions of her body.
Taking a few steps backwards, he lowered himself and sat on the bed, leaning back and crossing his long legs, drinking in the sight of her pale and shivering petite frame, a dull pulsating glow of hunger radiating from the granite depths of his eyes.
"Well?" he asked her, a mocking lilt to his clear voice, "Are you going to wash yourself or are you just going to stand there?"
In all honesty, a small part of her wanted to know what he would do to her if she really just stood there, but she knew it was more sensible to do what he wanted in a bid to quicken the pace of this strange and utterly embarrassing ordeal. Averting her eyes, she bent and looked into the wash basin. One of the servants had apparently already filled it and, as her reflection on the still surface of the water came into view, she drew back in surprise.
It wasn't the fact that the skin on her face lacked colour that startled her. Or the fact that she looked more tired than usual. It was her hair, now as white as virgin snow, some strands brittle against her face, making her look like a ghost. A slight chuckle reverberated throughout the room and she looked up to see the Darkling surveying her with a wicked and amused glint in his eye.
"Your foolish little stunt in the chapel costed you more than you know," he explained, "if it wasn't for my good graces and the skill of the Healers you would probably be dead by now."
Still bent over, she gaped at him stupidly, unable to find the words she needed to reply to him. His gaze drifted unashamedly to her breasts which hanged tantalizingly from her chest over the basin in her current position.
"I had the Alkemi feed you potions to bring you back to strength while you were unconscious," he continued, eyes now roaming the rest of her body, "I needed you ready to face me when you woke up. I needed you ready for what I plan to do to you."
His last sentence came out as a whisper, both threatening and seductive, and she felt the insides of her stomach flutter with something like excitement, almost pushing away her fear and humiliation. What was he planning to do to her?
Before she could ask, his face shuttered again and he looked her dead in the eye.
"Now. Wash yourself. I will not repeat my order, Sun Summoner."
His tone was mocking as he addressed her by her title. He knew very well that she was unable to summon light here. Deep in the bowels of this underground prison, she was helpless against him. She tried willing away the butterflies of excitement and anticipation from her stomach but they made their way lower to her centre, turning into the warm wet evidence of her arousal, now beginning to coat her inner thighs.
Quickly, she bent over and dipped the washcloth into the lavender scented water before passing it along her calves, working her way up her body. It was pleasantly cool and felt good against her heated and oversensitive flesh. Before long, she reached her upper thighs and her sex and she passed the washcloth quickly between her thighs, praying to the Saints that the Darkling did not see how aroused she was. However as she pulled the cloth out, she was horrified to find a long, thin, glistening trail of her wetness clinging to it. A blush crept up her cheeks. There was no way the man in front of her would mistake that for water.
She felt, rather than saw his raised eyebrow as she hurriedly bent to rinse the cloth and start washing her torso. The temporary relief the water was having on her skin was wearing off now and more of her moisture was beginning to pool in that forbidden area once more. She hastened her pace, passing the cloth swiftly, but thoroughly across her stomach, along the taut nipples of her breasts and her slim, small arms. With one final rinse of the cloth, she passed it across her face and neck, stopping short as she reached the collar. Now that she was finished, she was unsure of what to do so she lay the cloth at the edge of the basin and finally met the gaze of the Darkling, who, to her slight disappointment, looked bored rather than aroused. The thought that he may not be as affected by her naked body, as she thought he would be, made standing in front of him like this even more humiliating than it was before.
"I'm done," she said, matter-of-factly, as she crossed her arms on top of her chest. She was still quite slim, but since she had discovered her powers, her breasts had filled out significantly and it made her all the more self conscious, as she was still getting used to them.
"So it seems," he replied with the ghost of a smirk, "Come here."
Timidly, she padded up to him, fighting a mixture of conflicting and confusing emotions. Her body was loving this but her mind was protesting. He uncrossed his legs, grasped her hands and roughly pulled her on top of him. The breath left Alina's lungs as she fell, not so gracefully, unto his lap, straddling him. Her small nude body wrapped around his much larger, fully clothed, lean frame. The thick heavy fabric of his kefta provided wonderful friction between her legs and she found herself shamelessly grinding against him, a soft moan escaping her lips as she dug her fingers into his broad chest.
His hands were on her breasts, squeezing and pumping them, skilfully tugging at the taut pink peaks of her nipples. A high wanton whimper, tore through her throat, slicing through the still silence around them.
"You like that, don't you, my little saint?"
In the back of her mind, some part of her blanched at the nickname he gave her but she ignored it and leaned into him, wanting badly to kiss him, craving the feel of his tongue inside her mouth, but he drew back, raised his hands, and twisted them into her hair pulling her head back painfully.
Ignoring her cries of pain he said, "I asked you a question, Alina, answer me."
"Y-yes," she whimpered, her eyes closed as tears leaked out from them.
Still holding her head in place with his hands, his face traveled to her breasts and he took a nipple into his mouth, sucking on sensitive flesh with unyielding intensity. She gasped and sucked in a breath as he lightly bit it, her hand buried in his dark silky hair.
Lazily he moved from one breast to the other, drinking in her skin and inhaling the scent of lavender. The girl thrashed, starting to enjoy the pressure of his hands in her hair while he worshiped her forcefully with his mouth. She couldn't think properly anymore. This was all too much for her. He was too much for her.
"Be honest Alina," he murmured against her chest, "You act like a good righteous little Saint but in reality you want to be treated like a dirty little whore, don't you?"
She found herself moaning at the way he spoke to her, so crudely and sinfully. She loved this. She couldn't deny it. She realized that she did want him to treat her like a whore. That she wouldn't mind being used continuously by him as if she was nothing more than a toy.
"Yes," she repeated, her insides quivering with need, "do anything you want to me."
He released her hair and grasped her waist so that they could stare at each other. His eyes were alight with lust and triumph before he pushed her roughly unto the bed, pinning her down with his weight. He reached out and grabbed her hands, his fingers grazing the fetter at her wrist. Through her haze of desire, panic erupted as she realized he was chaining her to the bed with the irons he'd previously released her from. He gave her a cold, humorless smile as he watched her struggling against the bonds, like a predator about to devour its prey.
"You told me I could do anything I wanted to you," he crooned, ignoring the fear on her face and her pleas to be set free, "I plan to do exactly that. No one is going to hear you scream, my Saint. No one but me."