Chapter 5 Bitches &Broken things

~Her POV~

The floor was cold against her cheek.

Her limbs ached.

Her body stiff.

She hadn't moved much since the night before-not out of fear, but exhaustion.

And defiance.

She didn't want to crawl to the bed. She didn't want his sheets on her skin. She didn't want to smell him.

So she stayed on the floor, curled up, silent.

Still wearing the torn remains of the dress he'd ripped off her like she was paper-fragile and disposable.

The only warmth came from her own skin. Her own breath. Her own quiet promise:

"I will survive this."

Then came the sound.

Footsteps.

Heels.

Click, click, click.

Her lashes fluttered open, and she barely had time to sit up before-

SPLASH.

Cold water hit her square in the face.

She gasped, sputtered, her whole body jerking from the shock.

Laughter followed. Sweet, syrupy, cruel.

"Ohhh," came the voice, mock-gentle. "Oops. Did I wake you?"

She wiped her face slowly, vision clearing just in time to see Lucia standing over her, holding a silver bucket and smirking like the devil's favorite pet.

Tall. Barefoot. In Damien's black silk robe.

Her long, tanned legs peeked through the slit as she leaned against the wall like a goddess descending just to spit on the damned.

"Poor thing," Lucia cooed, crouching beside her with that fake pout. "He left you here all night? Didn't even bother to... finish with you?"

Her eyes glittered.

"Guess you're not his type."

The girl didn't answer. Just stared-dripping, expression blank, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Lucia's smirk faltered slightly.

"You'll learn eventually," she said, swirling the bucket idly. "Damien doesn't keep broken toys. He plays with them until they bleed, then he gives them to the men downstairs. The ones who don't ask before they take."

Still no reaction.

Lucia clicked her tongue. "You should be grateful, you know. He doesn't usually let his whores sleep untouched their first night. He must think you're... special."

She stood up, towering above her.

"Or maybe," she added coldly, "he just doesn't care enough to use you."

That one landed.

A flicker in the girl's eyes-rage, shame, something alive.

Lucia noticed. Smiled wider.

"Don't worry. He'll come for you soon enough."

Then she leaned in close, lips brushing her ear.

"And when he does... I hope you scream."

The bucket clanged as she tossed it aside and walked toward the door, hips swaying like she owned the ground she stepped on.

Halfway there, she paused.

Glanced back.

"Oh, and one more thing," she added, voice lighter, almost cheery. "Don't get any ideas about escaping. You step one foot outside that room without permission? You'll wish Damien had killed you like your parents."

SLAM.

The door shut.

And once again, silence returned.

But this time, it wasn't peaceful.

It was personal.

She sat there, soaking wet, her hands clenched into fists on the floor. Her jaw tightened. The taste of rage burned on her tongue like fire she couldn't swallow.

Lucia wanted her broken. Shaking. Begging.

But all she did was ignite something.

Something cold.

Something sharp.

Something new.

She wasn't going to break.

She was going to burn.

Her fists clenched against the floor.

She wasn't just surviving now.

She was starting to plot.