PROLOGUE
THE PRINCESS
A year ago, a man with the most beautiful eyes I'd ever seen led me through the castle corridors. They were yellow, flecked with amber, and when he looked at me, I felt like I was falling into the sun.
"Just through here, Princess," he'd said, his voice smooth as honey. "Your father asked me to show you something."
I should have questioned it. Should have wondered why a stranger was in the castle, why my father would send someone I'd never met.
But those eyes, God, those eyes, they made me trust him.
Made my entire body hum with awareness. Made me follow him up the winding stairs to a tower room I'd never seen before.
There was a spinning wheel in the center. An old one, covered in dust.
"Touch the spindle," he said against my ear, his voice different now. Deeper. Commanding. Vibrating through my entire body
My hand moved before I could think. The sharp point pierced my finger, and I watched a single drop of blood well up, impossibly red.
The drowsiness hit me immediately. My legs gave out, and he caught me, lowering me gently to the floor with the most careful hands.
As my vision blurred, I saw him change. His body stretched, grew, scales rippling across his skin in waves of the most beautiful iridescent blue I’d ever seen.
His face elongated slightly, became something between man and beast. Wings unfurled from his back, strong and large. A tail lashed behind him.
Seven feet tall. Clawed hands. A dragon. A monster.
My last conscious thought, as the darkness pulled me under, was absurd: He's still very handsome even as a dragon.
Then nothing.
Except it wasn't nothing.
I'm awake. I've been awake this entire year, trapped inside my own body like a prisoner in a cell made of flesh and bone. I can't move. Can't speak. Can't even blink. But I can feel everything. Hear everything. Think everything.
Every morning, he carries me to the bathing chamber. His clawed hands are so careful as he undresses me, as he lowers me into the warm water. He talks to me while he bathes me, his voice that same deep rumble that made me follow him up those stairs.
"Good morning, my treasure. Did you sleep well?"
I want to scream that I don't sleep. That I'm here, conscious, aware of every touch, every word.
He washes my hair with gentle fingers, works soap across my skin with a tenderness that would be sweet if it wasn't so horrifying. He dries me carefully, brushes my hair until it shines, braids it with practiced ease.
"You're so beautiful, Adelaide. More beautiful every day."
He dresses me in silk nightgowns, sometimes lace. He tells me the color they are as he dresses me. Red, blue, green, gold, white, a different color each day. His claws never once scratch my skin. He's learned how to touch me without hurting me.
Except he's hurting me every moment I'm trapped like this.
He carries me back to bed, arranges me on the silk sheets like a doll. Sometimes he reads to me. Sometimes he just talks, telling me about his day, about the castle, about how much he loves me.
Love. He calls this love. I am a prisoner. A captive.
But tonight is different.
I feel it the moment he lays me down. There's a tension in his movements, a tremor in his hands. His breathing is heavier.
"Adelaide," he whispers, and there's something in his voice that makes ice flood my veins. "I'm sorry. I know I said I'd wait. That I'd keep you safe and untouched until I woke you. But I can't. You're too beautiful."
No. No, no, no.
His hand runs down my body, over the silk, and I want to thrash, to fight, to run. But I can't move. Can't even make my breathing change to show my terror.
"It's going to hurt you at first. I know it will."
"I'm sorry," he whispers.
Please don't. Please. I'm begging him in my mind, screaming at him, but he can't hear me. He'll never hear me.
"Fuck," he pants. "You're so tight, Adelaide. So perfect. I know it hurts, baby, I know, but you're taking me so well."
I'm not taking you. You're forcing yourself into me.
Then he pushes forward, and I learn what real pain is.
"That's it," he groans. "Take me. Take all of me. Your body was made for this. Made for me."
No it wasn't! Another thrust, deeper, and I feel him stretching me beyond what should be possible. I feel myself tear again. There are ridges on his cock. I can feel them dragging against my inner walls, catching and pulling. The pain is white-hot, all-consuming.
"Good girl," he praises. "Such a good fucking girl, taking my cock. You're doing so well, Adelaide. So fucking well."
I feel him pull at my nightgown, and cool air hits my breasts as he exposes them. The humiliation adds another layer to the horror.
"Perfect. Everything about you is perfect."
"Look at you," he pants, and I feel pressure on my lower stomach where he must be pressing. "Look at how deep I am. How perfectly your body accepts me. You were meant for this, Adelaide. Meant for me."
I wasn't. I wasn't meant for this.
Then I feel it. Something that makes the horror so much worse. Wetness. My body is responding despite my terror, despite my screaming mind. No. No, this can't be happening.
"Almost there, treasure. Almost. Just a little more. I hope you're enjoying your first time. I can feel you getting a little wet. Hope you're moaning in there."
Shame crashes over me, hot and suffocating. My body is betraying me. Even as I'm being violated, even as I'm screaming inside, my body is responding to him.
I hate him. I hate him so much I can taste it, bitter and sharp on my tongue that won't move.
"Fuck," he breathes, and I feel his forehead against mine. "Adelaide. My Adelaide. You feel so good. So perfect. We were meant to be together."
Then he starts to move, pulling back and thrusting forward in slow, deep strokes. Those ridges drag against my walls, and to my absolute horror, my body responds. I'm getting wetter, making it easier for him.
"That's it," he groans. "Your body knows. Knows what it needs. Knows who it belongs to."
No. No, it doesn't. This is just biology. Just a physical response. It doesn't mean anything.
But the shame is overwhelming. My body is making this easier for him. Making it feel good for him while I'm trapped inside, screaming.
His lips find my neck, kissing, and I feel his breath hot against my skin. He kisses again, trailing along my throat, and each touch feels like a brand.
"Mine," he growls, and he's moving faster now, harder. "You're mine now, Adelaide. I'll keep you forever. Always protect you. Fuck you."
He grabs my breast, and I feel his claws dig into the sheets beside my head. His mouth is on my neck again, kissing, sucking.
"Mine," he repeats against my skin, slamming into me. "Look at you. So beautiful taking my cock. Can you feel how wet you're getting? Your body knows, Adelaide. Feel your walls fluttering around me."
The betrayal of my body is complete. I can feel it. The flutter he's talking about, the increased wetness, the way my inner walls are clenching around him. And then, against my will, I feel something building. A pressure, a tension.
No. No, please, not that. Anything but that.
Then he leans down and sinks his teeth into my neck, right where it meets my shoulder.
The pain of the bite should be the final straw. Should push me over the edge into merciful unconsciousness.
But something happens instead.
A zing of pleasure shoots through me, starting from where his teeth pierce my skin and radiating outward. For a moment, my entire body is filled with a comforting vibrating warmth. Then, it’s gone. Replaced with a feeling of wrongness. It's so wrong. But my body doesn't care about wrong.
He's pulling back and thrusting forward, and those ridges, God, those ridges, they drag against something inside me that makes my breath hitch.
My breathing. It's the only thing I can control, the only way my body can respond, and it's betraying me. Getting faster. Shallower. I feel my breasts bouncing, the silk nightgowns bunched tightly on the sides.
"That's it," he groans against my neck. "Your body knows."
No. No, this isn't happening. I don't want this. I don't want to feel anything but pain and hatred.
But the pleasure builds anyway. Each thrust hits something deep inside me that sends sparks through my nervous system. The ridges catch and pull, and my breathing gets faster, more desperate.
I'm chasing something. Something I can't name, can't understand. My body is climbing toward something, and I can't stop it.
"Mine," he growls, and I feel his cock swell inside me.
The pleasure intensifies. It's building, building, building, and I'm terrified of what's coming because I know, I know, it's going to feel good, and I can't bear that. Can't bear the thought of my body finding pleasure in this violation.
His thrusts get harder, faster, and my breathing is ragged now, the only sign of what's happening inside me.
Then it hits.
The orgasm crashes through me like a wave, and it's exhilarating. My body clenches around him, pulsing, and pleasure floods every nerve ending. My breathing stops entirely for a moment, suspended in the intensity of it.
And I'm appalled. Appalled at myself for feeling this. Appalled at my body for responding. Appalled at him for doing this to me, for making me feel pleasure when I should only feel pain.
The shame is worse than the violation. Because my body liked it. My body wanted it. And I'm trapped here with that knowledge, unable to scream or cry or express the horror of what just happened.
"Such a good girl. My good girl."
I want to die. I want to cease existing. My body came while he raped me. My body betrayed me in the worst possible way, and I'll never be able to forget it. Never be able to forgive it.
"Adelaide. My treasure. My princess. Mine."
He stays inside me for a long moment, and I feel every twitch, every throb. Then he pulls out, and I feel the wetness. He tells me blood and semen are leaking from me.
He cleans me gently. Changes the sheets. Dresses me in a fresh nightgown. His touch is tender, careful, loving.
It makes me want to vomit.
He pulls me against his chest, wraps his tail around my legs, his wings go around my body, and whispers into my hair.
"I'm sorry. But I'm not sorry enough to regret it. You're mine now, Adelaide. Completely mine."
I lie there in his arms, feeling his heartbeat against my back, feeling the ache between my legs and the bite mark throbbing on my neck.
And the worst part, the absolute worst part, is that my body is still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure.
I hate him.
I hate myself more.
Because somewhere in the darkness of my trapped mind, a small, traitorous part of me is already wondering when he'll do it again.
And that thought is more terrifying than anything else.