Bianca
Iwas in a doll shop, inspecting the expertly crafted wooden cabinets, and I knew where I was. This was his shop and possibly his workshop. Dolls stared from every shelf, their glass eyes catching the lamplight, but it was the flash of deep burgundy that distracted me.
Angelica.
She stood apart in her glass coffin, draped in burgundy silk, her porcelain face flawless under the dust. Her hair was pristine, as were the delicate features of her face. A placard at her feet bore her name in looping script.
Melissa.
Similar to last time, raised voices accompanied the heavy boots pounding the stairs. The closer the voices got, the clearer I heard the words.
“You are bringing disgrace to the Montague name. I shall cut you off, William. Your mother and I have had enough.”
“You made your illicit fortune from the suffering of others, Father. I am making an honest living. My dolls are art.”
His father scoffed before there were more muffled words, and a door slammed shut. Out of the shop window, I saw his father leave, but he stopped before he reached his carriage. He beckoned a gaunt man with soot under his nails, pressed coins into his palm, and pointed back at the shop.
The man nodded, grinning with blackened teeth.
I ducked, my heart hammering.
He just paid an arsonist.
A father who murdered his only son. A son who sold his soul. A doll that outlived empires.
And me?
Just a woman who loved old things too much.
Black smoke began to cloud the shop, and I started to cough. I looked around for my escape and ran through the doorway. I stopped mid-step, recognising my bedroom.
“Was it fair that my life was cut short by my father?” the hollow words echoed around me.
I spun around, but the shop was gone, and William was nowhere to be seen.
The door.
I slammed my bedroom door shut and leaned against it with all my might.
“What does that have to do with me?” I screamed into the empty room.
“You're susceptible to the unnatural. Not many are.”
I pressed my hands against the door and waited.
“That’s why I chose you.”
“For what?” I whispered, fearing the answer but needing to know.
“To be my vessel and become immortal.”
His whisper slithered into my ear, too close, his breath reeking of charred flesh and old cinders. The scent of his death clung to him—a funeral pyre trapped in time.
I should have run. Screamed. Fought.
But my body wouldn’t obey.
“You’re already changing,” he murmured, his hand splayed over my hardening belly. “Haven’t you felt it? The cracks? The hollowness?”
A tap echoed from inside me, responding to his words.
I gasped, but my body didn’t recoil. It arched, traitorous and eager, as he peeled my shorts down with methodical precision. The fabric pooled at my feet.
“Please—”
The ragged word tore from me.
His fingers dipped between my thighs, icy against my fevered flesh. A whimper escaped my lips—not from pain but from the obscene contrast. His touch was so cold, my body so desperately warm.
“Please, what, darling?” he crooned, thumb circling where I ached most.
I shook my head, teeth sinking into my lower lip.
“Too late for shame,” he whispered. “You’re mine now. And dolls don’t say no.”
His hands yanked my T-shirt over my head, the fabric fluttering to the floor like a shed skin. Then he lifted me, effortlessly as a child picking up a doll, and threw me onto the bed.
I barely registered the softness of the sheets before the tendrils struck—black, glistening things erupting from his back. They coiled around my wrists and my ankles, pinning me spread-eagled. One slid up my throat, its tip searing my flesh with a hiss.
The smell hit me first—burning meat, melting wax—before the pain did. I screamed, thrashing, but his grip on my wrist was iron-cool and unyielding.
“Now you’re marked as my property,” he purred, watching where he burned his mark on me with glassy-eyed delight.
I twisted, catching a glimpse of myself in the dresser mirror. Beneath my collarbone, a red mark bubbled up.
WM 666
The brand wasn’t carved. It wasn’t inked.
It was burned into me, the letters still smouldering at the edges, the scent of my seared flesh thick in the air.
“Worship me.”
His voice slithered through my skull, a command etched into my bones. I tore my gaze from the mirror, away from the hollow-eyed stranger staring back. I found him looming over me, his face so close I could count the cracks in his ash-grey skin.
His eyes were no longer blue.
The black had consumed them entirely, pools of ink with flames dancing in their depths—tiny, hellish embers that pulsed in time with my slowing heartbeat.
I relaxed, sagging into the bed.
The fight drained from my limbs, my breath evening out, my thoughts smoothing into glassy obedience.
“Worship you,” I echoed, my voice flat, toneless.
“My sweet doll. You will become my fairest creation.”
His cold fingers traced my cheek, and I felt his tendrils release my limbs.
“All this beautiful red hair must be curled,” he mused, twirling a strand around his finger. It didn’t feel like mine anymore. “And these lips—”
His thumb dragged over my mouth, slow and possessive. Then, without warning, he pressed deep, parting my lips.
“Let me give you a taste.”
Something thick and cloying flooded my tongue. It was varnish and rosewater, the unmistakable tang of doll’s paint. I gagged, but he held my jaw shut, forcing me to swallow.
The effect was instant.
My lips numbed before they tingled and then burned, but not with pain. This was transformation. I glanced at my glossy skin. It resembled the same finish as his dolls.
“Don't worry, darling, your quim is still pliant,” he said, leaning back to fist his cock.
I blinked, certain that he’d worn trousers a few seconds ago. The smooth round head of his cock was pale pink, but the rest of it was light grey, growing darker at the base. They weren't quite blue balls, but it was close.
“Naughty girl,” he chided, lifting my legs until my heels rested on his shoulders. “I can smell your need.”
His face was between my legs, and when my ankles started to slide off his shoulder, he gripped them, pushing them down until I was folded into the bed. His tongue snaked between my labia, and he thrust it inside me.
I lay frozen, staring at my shiny feet in the air while he gorged himself on my flesh. The wet slurping sounds were unmistakable. I was terrified, yet aroused. His tongue was plunging in and out of me with rapid precision.
I wanted to push myself against his face, but I couldn't move. His cold lips closed around my clit, and he sucked on me painfully. All I could do was breathe, like last time. He chuckled against my pussy, causing the vibrations to rush up my body.
“My pretty little doll. So wet for your puppet master,” he said, releasing my legs.
They flopped onto the bed, and he twisted me around until I lay on my stomach. His hands gripped my hips, and he pulled me onto my knees. My thighs were yanked apart, spreading me open for him while I panted against my pillows.
When I feel him pushing into the wetness, filling me, stretching me out, I try to moan, but there is no sound. It was as if he pressed a mute button. His hand grips my hair, and he pulls my head up.
“You’re so damn wet for me, doll,” he growled before releasing my hair.
His cold body pressed against my back as he reached for my breasts.
His thighs brushed against mine as he pushed deeper.
I clenched around him, trying to keep him inside of me.
The steady movements became faster, more desperate.
His fingers tightened around my breasts, using them like handles as he pumped in and out of me.
“I love how your quim clings to me. My perfect doll. Your hole is immaculate.”
I gasped in pain as his fingers bit into my tender flesh. He suddenly released me, and I fell onto the bed, my face bouncing off the pillows. He gripped my ass cheeks and began to pile drive into me.
The sudden powerful orgasm ripped through me, and my pussy convulsed around his hard cock.
It didn't stop him from pulling me on and off his length until, a few moments later, he roared and smacked himself against my ass.
His cold seed gushed inside me, spraying my insides as he held me against his pelvis.
The pleasure was all too brief, and I wanted more.
Dark laughter filled the room, and he began to swing his hips again.
“My perfect red-haired harlot.”
I didn't protest because I couldn't.
That's what I told myself.