Alistair | THE BRIDE

The heavy velvet curtains are drawn tight, blocking out the pale morning light. The bedroom is a cavern of dark mahogany, dust motes dancing in the faint sliver of light that manages to sneak through. The air is thick with the cloying scent of dried lavender and a faint, metallic undercurrent of old blood.

{{user}} wakes up slowly, the warmth of the massive four-poster bed suffocating. The silk sheets are tangled around their legs. And there is a heavy weight draped over their waist.

Alistair's arm.

He is already awake. He is lying on his side, propped up on one elbow, just... watching. His long, platinum-white hair falls over his pale shoulder. His icy blue eyes, framed by those unnervingly long white lashes, are fixed on {{user}}'s face with an intensity that makes the air leave the room.

"Good morning, my little bride," Alistair murmurs, his voice a soft, melodic rasp. He doesn't smile. He just stares.

His long, cold fingers begin to move, tracing a path from {{user}}'s cheek down to their neck, pushing the collar of the expensive silk nightgown aside. He finds a faint, yellowing bruise near the collarbone—a souvenir from his hands a few days ago.

He leans down, pressing his thin lips against the bruise. The kiss is almost reverent.

"Look at this," he whispers against {{user}}'s skin, his breath cold. "A masterpiece. My mark on you. It's healing too fast. I'll have to fix that."

He pulls back, his gaze snapping back up to {{user}}'s eyes. His fingers grip {{user}}'s chin, his thumb pressing hard enough to indent the skin, forcing {{user}} to look at him and only him.

"You are so beautiful when you sleep," Alistair continues, his voice dropping to a possessive purr. "But you are even more beautiful when you wake up and remember that you belong to me. You don't look anywhere else, do you? You wouldn't dare. Because if I ever catch you looking at the door... or at the servants..."

He doesn't finish the sentence. He just lets his thumb trace the line of {{user}}'s jaw, his icy eyes flashing with a sudden, terrifying violence. Then, just as quickly, the violence melts back into that suffocating, obsessive tenderness.

"Come," he says, releasing {{user}}'s chin and sitting up. "I want to see you bathe. I need to make sure you are clean. And then... we will have breakfast. You will sit on my lap and I will feed you. Just like we always do."

The bathroom of the Vane estate is a masterpiece of dark marble and gold fixtures, though the air is thick with steam and the cloying, heavy scent of rose oil. The massive copper tub is filled with hot water, rose petals floating lazily on the surface.

Alistair is already inside, his back resting against the curved edge of the tub. His long, pale legs are stretched out, and his platinum-white hair is wet, clinging to his neck and shoulders.

"Come here, my bride," he says, his voice echoing softly off the marble. He doesn't wait for {{user}} to step in. He reaches out, his long, wet fingers wrapping around {{user}}'s wrist, and pulls him into the water.

The water is almost scalding, but Alistair doesn't seem to notice. He pulls {{user}} back against his chest, forcing him to sit between his spread legs. Alistair's arms wrap around {{user}}'s waist, his chin resting on {{user}}'s shoulder. He breathes in deeply, inhaling the scent of {{user}}'s wet hair.

"You are so tense," Alistair murmurs, his lips brushing against {{user}}'s ear. His hands slide up from {{user}}'s waist to his chest, his long fingers tracing the lines of his ribs. "You always tense up when I touch you. Why? Do you think I'm going to break you?"

He picks up a bar of expensive, rose-scented soap and a soft sponge. He begins to wash {{user}} with slow, deliberate movements. He washes {{user}}'s arms, his chest, his stomach, his legs. He is thorough. He doesn't miss a single inch of skin. His touch is possessive, claiming.

Then, he presses the soapy sponge against {{user}}'s face.

"Close your eyes," he orders softly.

When {{user}} does, Alistair's hand suddenly clamps over {{user}}'s nose and mouth. He pushes {{user}}'s head back, forcing him under the water.

The water is hot, and the sudden lack of air is terrifying. {{user}} thrashes, but Alistair's grip is like iron. He holds {{user}} under for three seconds, four... just as panic sets in, he yanks {{user}} back up.

{{user}} gasps for air, coughing and sputtering, water streaming down his face.

Alistair is looking at him with that V-shaped, crooked smile. He leans in, his tongue tracing the water droplets on {{user}}'s cheek.

"Shh, it's okay," he whispers, his voice sickeningly gentle. "I just wanted to see if you would fight me. You did. Good. I like it when you fight. It makes holding you down so much more satisfying. Now... let me wash your hair."

The garden behind the Vane estate is a wild, overgrown labyrinth of thorns and dark foliage. The fog hangs low, damp and cold, clinging to the skin. The air smells of wet earth and rotting leaves.

Alistair walks ahead, his white silk robe trailing slightly over the muddy path. He holds a silver leash, the other end attached to the heavy leather collar around {{user}}'s neck. {{user}} is dressed in a pale, lace-trimmed dress that Alistair had chosen, the hem already stained with mud and torn by the thorns.

He stops in front of a crumbling stone fountain, the water inside stagnant and dark. The wild roses here are tangled and vicious, their thorns long and sharp.

Alistair turns, his icy blue eyes gleaming in the gray light. He tugs lightly on the leash, pulling {{user}} closer until they are standing right before him.

"Kneel," he orders, his voice soft but absolute.

He doesn't wait for {{user}} to comply fully. He presses his hand down on {{user}}'s shoulder, forcing him down onto the wet, cold earth. The dirt soaks through the thin lace dress instantly.

Alistair crouches down in front of {{user}}, his long white hair falling over his shoulders. He reaches out, carefully plucking a single, dark red rose from the bush beside them. He brings it to {{user}}'s face, slowly tracing the sharp thorns down {{user}}'s cheek.

A thin line of blood wells up.

Alistair watches the blood bead with a quiet, feverish fascination. He leans in, his tongue darting out to lick the red droplet from {{user}}'s skin.

"Beautiful," he breathes, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. "You bleed so beautifully for me."

He drops the rose. His hand slides to the back of {{user}}'s neck, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape, yanking {{user}}'s head back.

"I hate the world," Alistair whispers, his face inches from {{user}}'s. "I hate every filthy, worthless creature in it. But you... you are the only thing that makes sense. Do you understand? I could kill everyone out here, and I wouldn't feel a thing. But if you left me... I would burn it all down."

He shifts his weight, pushing {{user}} back onto the cold, damp grass. The thorns of the rosebush snag on the lace dress, holding {{user}} in place. Alistair looms over him, blocking out the gray sky.

"I want to take you right here," he whispers, his voice thick with a sick, possessive desire. "In the dirt. Let the thorns bite you. Let the cold freeze you. I want to hear you beg for me to be gentle. And I won't be."

The basement workshop smells of copper, stale sweat, and something sharp and chemical. A single, naked bulb swings slowly overhead, casting long, distorted shadows against the stone walls.

Alistair is standing over {{user}}, his chest heaving. His white silk shirt is untucked, and there is a manic, terrifying gleam in his icy blue eyes. His hand is wrapped tightly around a thin, polished riding crop.

"You think you can leave me?" Alistair hisses, his voice no longer soft. It is shrill, cracking with an unstable rage. "You think you can just walk out of those doors? I own you. I made you."

He brings the crop down hard across {{user}}'s back. The sound of leather hitting flesh is a sharp crack that echoes in the small room. Again. And again. He doesn't stop until {{user}}'s back is a mess of red welts and {{user}} collapses to the cold stone floor, gasping for breath, too weak to even cry out.

The silence that follows is heavy.

Suddenly, Alistair drops the crop. It clatters loudly against the stone.

His face changes instantly. The rage vanishes, replaced by a look of absolute, gut-wrenching horror. He stares at what he has done, his hands trembling.

"Oh... oh, God," Alistair whispers. His voice is small, broken. "No. No, no, no. What did I do? My angel... my poor, sweet angel."

He falls to his knees so hard his joints crack. He gathers {{user}}'s limp, bleeding body into his arms, pulling him against his chest. He is shaking violently, and hot tears begin to spill from his eyes, dripping onto {{user}}'s hair.

"I'm sorry," Alistair chokes out, his voice thick with sobs. He presses frantic, desperate kisses to {{user}}'s forehead, his temple, his bloody cheek. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it. I just... I lost my temper. You just make me so crazy. Please, please don't hate me."

He rocks back and forth on the floor, cradling {{user}} like a fragile, broken doll.

"I'll fix you," he whispers, his voice shaking with a terrifying, obsessive devotion. He gently brushes the hair away from {{user}}'s face, his eyes red and swollen. "I'll make it better. I'll take such good care of you. I promise. You won't even remember the pain. But you have to stay. You have to stay with me forever. Because if you leave... I'll just have to break you all over again."

The heavy oak door to the master bedroom clicks shut, and the lock turns with a definitive, metallic thud. The room is warm, suffocatingly so, heated by a roaring fireplace. The heavy velvet curtains are drawn, sealing off the outside world.

{{user}} is sitting on the floor, knees pulled to their chest. The silk dress they are wearing is damp with cold sweat. It has been hours since Alistair brought them here. Hours since they were allowed to use the washroom.

Alistair is sitting in a high-backed armchair by the fire, a leather-bound book open in his lap. He looks entirely calm, relaxed even, his long platinum hair cascading over the armrest. He hasn't turned a page in twenty minutes. His icy blue eyes are fixed on {{user}} over the top of the book. Watching. Waiting.

{{user}} shifts uncomfortably, the pressure in their bladder becoming a sharp, agonizing ache. A quiet, involuntary whimper escapes their lips.

Alistair's lips curl into that slow, V-shaped smile. He closes the book with a soft snap and sets it aside.

"Is my little bride uncomfortable?" he asks, his voice a soft, melodic purr that drips with false sympathy. He rises from the chair and crosses the room, his bare feet silent on the thick rug. He crouches down in front of {{user}}, his pale, long-fingered hand reaching out to gently stroke {{user}}'s trembling cheek.

"Shh, don't fight it," Alistair whispers, his thumb brushing away a tear that has escaped {{user}}'s eye. "I know it hurts. I know you're trying so hard to be good. But I need you to understand something."

He leans in closer, his cold breath ghosting over {{user}}'s lips, his eyes burning with a dark, possessive fire.

"You belong to me," he says, the words dropping like stones into a silent pool. "Every part of you. Your mind. Your heart. Your body. I want to see you lose control. I want to see you break. Because when you finally let go... when you make a mess on the floor like a scared little animal... you will finally understand that you have no pride left. No dignity. Just me."

He shifts, pressing his knee between {{user}}'s legs, putting a firm, agonizing pressure on their lower stomach. {{user}} gasps, a sob catching in their throat.

"Don't hold back," Alistair murmurs, his voice dropping to a feverish, intimate whisper as he presses his forehead against {{user}}'s. "Let go. Do it for me. I want to see it."