My thigh burns.


    It''s an odd ache between desire and pain. I itch, rub, and scratch, but those two perfect, circular punctures remain in the skin, though no blood seeps out.


    It took so long for the desire he''d forced into me to dissipate, leaving my body feeling more like me again. The power he has to overcome my natural revulsion is terrifying, and I spend way too much time dreaming up horrible scenarios in which I''m used as a sex slave to a vampire.


    Though, he didn''t seem to have much interest in the actual sex aspect, outside of... how did he say it?


    Oh, yeah.


    Flavoring.


    The word makes me shudder. He''s going to drain me of every drop of blood one day.


    And no matter how long I sit here, I have no ideas on how to fight back.


    What would Ava do in this situation? I can''t believe she would sit here and let it happen to her. She''d fight back somehow, right?


    But...


    Ava isn''t exactly human, either.


    Maybe once, but not anymore.


    Shivering in the cold, I roll carefully to my other side, using my clothing scraps as a barrier between my skin and stone.


    I can''t wear them. May as well lay on them.


    My body aches in ways I never thought possible. The frigid temperature of the floor seeps through my bones, an insidious chill that refuses to abate no matter how tightly I curl in on myself.


    Manacles chafe against my wrists and ankles. I tug at them with a weak yank every so often, knowing it''s futile but unable to resist. The metal is unyielding, the chains too strong for my human strength to break.


    But I can''t give up. I won''t.


    I have to hold on to hope, to the belief that I''ll make it out of here somehow.


    But how?


    I close my eyes, trying to summon every scrap of knowledge I have about vampires. It''s not much, just bits and pieces gleaned from movies and books...


    And none of them really agree with each other.


    The stale air shifts, carrying a new scent that makes my nose wrinkle. An acrid tang underlies the ever-present must, sharp and chemical.


    I watch in trepidation as the stone wall groans and slides open, scraping against the floor.


    It''s not the vampire.


    Thank God.


    She''s tiny, barely cresting five feet, her delicate features at odds with the dreary confines of this place. Short, feathery brown hair frames a face that would be pretty were it not for the sickly, translucent pallor of her skin. Her eyes are an unnatural green that glows in the dim light.


    My gaze drifts lower, and I can''t stifle the blush that creeps up my neck. She''s clad in little more than scraps of lace that cling to her slender frame, leaving very little to the imagination. Metal cuffs cup her wrists and ankles, but there''s no chain holding her down.


    Angry red marks mar the exposed skin of her shoulders and thighs, full teeth marks. Bites, but not the vampire kind. Others are vivid punctures.


    Just like the wound on my thigh.


    She moves with a strange, jerky grace, her bare feet making no sound as she crosses the floor. A tray laden with food is clutched in her trembling hands, which she sets down before me with exaggerated care.


    A bowl of soup. A plate of broccoli. Strawberries. A steak that''s already cut into bite-sized pieces. Rare, of course. All things I can eat with my fingers.


    A cup of water. Nothing fancy there.


    Once her task is done, she scurries away, pressing herself into the farthest corner from me. Her haunting green eyes are wide, watching my every move with an intensity that raises the fine hairs on my arms.


    "Hi?" My voice is little more than a raspy whisper, my throat sore and ravaged from screaming.


    She flinches at the sound, but she doesn''t reply.


    I lick my cracked lips, trying again. "Who are you? Why are you here?"


    For a long moment, she remains silent and unmoving, watching me with those eerie eyes. Just when I think she won''t answer, her melodic voice drifts through the dank air. "Marisol."


    "Marisol," I repeat slowly, studying her slight form. "Are you being held here against your will, like me?"


    Her reaction is instantaneous and violent. Marisol recoils as if I''ve struck her, her eyes flying wide with a look of abject horror. "No!" The word bursts from her, sharp and indignant. "No, I would never... How could you think such a thing?"


    I blink, taken aback by her vehemence. "I just thought, since you''re chained up like me, that maybe—"


    "I am not chained!" she cries, her voice rising in pitch. Trembling hands clutch at her wrists, caressing the iron cuffs. "The Master gave me these beautiful things to wear. He takes such good care of me."


    A sick feeling curls in the pit of my stomach as her words sink in. The way she speaks of this "Master," the almost worshipful tone, is deeply unsettling.