‘Settle down, mortal!’ they demand coarsely as they strap her onto the old obnoxious armchair in the center of the chamber. A debris-reeking red armchair she essentially lives on; something she’s impelled to embrace. She flinches upon the feel of old textile scraping against her thighs. She wants to flee so badly, yet unless she is of power that only remains a long secluded dream. This chamber is her segregation—and not the tranquil kind.

Two mighty men in rusty armors pin her down by her arms, repelling her persistent wrenching. ‘Let me go’ Aria murmurs lowly under her breath, plunging her head and letting her fringes sweep over her forehead. The tiles below seem a shade dimmer today and she can already taste the embitterment within the air she sips. The whispers in her head are brasher today and they refuse to be repressed; similarly to her perpetual thirst of freedom. Regardless, today is no different. Today is just another feeding-day, and this is merely another chore to check off her list.

The prince is coming and she knows that. Therefore she must tame herself. For her own good. To be spared a life in this kingdom means sacrificing more than just material goods—but dignity and pride too. Only if you’re humane are you faced with these troubles. And unfortunately for Aria Harper, she is another.

It doesn’t take long for the woods before her door to start creaking; signifying his feared arrival. It is dusk and the prince has just awoken from his slumber. Aria can smell his morning egotism from afar. It is shortly followed by three knocks on the wooden door, each one penetrating deeper in her soul. The door cracks open, unveiling a tall slender man masked in conceit. The prince—that’s the title the people honored him. But to her, he’s just another vague and fine-looking young fool thirsty of blood. Blood none other but her can grant him. Blood that only circulates in the bodies of very few human mortals—blood of a different quality. Aria Harper is a provider. But that entitlement really isn’t as glamorous as it sounds. Provider—it’s simply slang for maid; a terminology the royals call human mortals with to take away from the fact that they’re being enslaved.

‘Morning, are you well today?’ The prince queries as he paces towards her in his usual vain gate. She forces out an affable smile followed by an endearing giggle. She can’t bring herself to utter a word in graciousness or without breaking out in rage therefore she opts to nod her head coyly at him; still keeping it plunged low to obscure her furious glare beneath. ‘Of course you are’ he huffs in her ear; a line she can’t help but flinch upon. I’d be slaughtered mercilessly if I ever dare to bare ill-manners—she rolls her eyes discreetly at the thought.

The prince sits himself on the armchair across of her—unmistakably the more convenient one of the two. ‘Keep her still’ he demands towards both of his men, in a tone incredibly cold it could make winter out of summer. Both lads nod vigorously, complying with his order by tightening their grips on the poor girl. The prince then proceeds to place his majestic hands on her. He has one hand forcing her head to the side and the other on her shoulder blade, a method that lets him discern the veins in her neck with ease. One…two…three…—she counts down internally, preparing herself for excruciating pain she’s never really ready for. Despite the frequency that she’s endured this, it still feels like being jabbed by three ginormous needles. To her, it’s as if the ambiance and humanity inside of her is being drained in only seconds that feel like light-years.

His jet black leather boots are the only things in sight as he fed from her. They’re his signature; never has she seen him wear any other footwear but that. The whiff of his pungent and masculine fragrance is the only accompaniment to keep her soothed. Day by day, his musky fragrance is her only loyal friend; something that grants her the slightest of comfort in a time of anguish like this. Predominantly, the prince would feed the blood through a tube; but not for today. Once the prince is contented, he gradually eases his grasps on her before releasing her finally along with his men; letting the girl suck up as much murky oxygen in the room as she wishes to mollify her dehydrated system.

‘See you tomorrow’ Prince Eric murmurs in her ear, with a hint of glory in his speech before parting himself from her. He proceeds to flash Aria his perfect row of teeth that’s now washed in a bold red tint; standing boastfully before her. Egocentrism is not a pleasant word, nor is it a pleasant sight. Therefore, it is best contained. The Prince never seems to apprehend that which makes Aria no less than aggravated. Unable to let words address her wrath, she lets fury maneuver her. In the split of a second, she jolts up and grabs the prince by the collar of his coat, yanking him toward her.

‘You living bastard!’ she spats in his face. No leader should sabotage his power for guilty desires. ‘You are a monster!’ she yells boldly once more as she pounds her fists on his torso harshly, attempting to shove him away afterward. Prince Eric looks to be caught off guard—her hostile outrage was uncalled for and she understands that. She acknowledges the potential aftermaths of her behavior and none are particularly pleasant. She’d either be spared mercy but with a life of greater torment or not be spared at all. But what’s done can’t be undone. Yet despite that, she feels more accomplished than petrified that she’d acted out that way—that she is able to slap some sense into a stuck up snobbish brat like he. With an abashed yet perplexed glare affixed upon his stare, he calls for his men before deserting the room in ire. Once he’s out of sight, they proceed to howl at her, threaten her and assault her as if she isn’t a breathing creature for the fact that she has also put those men in jeopardy. Through their empty threats and extortions, she carries her newly found pride within her. Perhaps, that, faith and her body are the only things she’ll take along in the end of her.