No Longer Her Blood Bag

My name is Ethan, and for seven years, I was a vampire's blood thrall, a living blood bag for Victoria, my supposed mistress.

Every day was pure agony, battling the "Pact Strain" – a searing pain that only her blood could ease, blood she rarely offered.

I endured her extreme neglect, her casual cruelty, feeling my spirit erode away, piece by painful piece.

Then, Liam arrived – a human she rescued, immediately wrapped in her obsessive affection.

My suffering became unbearable, my very existence dismissed as she doted on him.

The ultimate betrayal came when she literally offered my throat to a newly turned, rabid Liam, commanding him to feed on me to stabilize his transformation.

I was just a disposable sacrifice.

Through a haze of pain and fading vision, I saw the truth: I was nothing but a living convenience, a mere self-service blood bank.

How could I have been so blind, so endlessly devoted to someone who saw me as less than an object?

The agonizing bite paled in comparison to the sting of her absolute disregard.

But in that moment of dying despair, a desperate, cunning spark ignited.

I feigned unconsciousness, using my self-inflicted wounds as a cover.

I would escape.

I would find my chance to destroy the pact's binding artifact, and finally sever these chains of torment.

What happens when your enslaver tries to reclaim you, threatening the one kind soul who ever helped you?

The pain started low in his gut, a familiar ache that tightened and spread, seven years he'd known this feeling, the precursor to the Pact Strain. Ethan pressed a hand to his stomach, his breath catching. Victoria was late, again.

She was always late now, ever since Liam.

He could hear her laughter from the drawing-room, light and careless, a sound he hadn't heard directed at him in years. Liam was human, vibrant, everything Ethan was not anymore. Victoria had brought him to the estate three days ago, comatose, rescued from some city scrape. She hadn't left Liam's side, and she hadn't fed.

The Strain was a fire now, coiling through his veins, demanding release. His skin felt too tight, his head throbbed.

Maria, the housekeeper, found him leaning against the hallway wall, his face pale.

"Mr. Ethan, are you alright?"

Her voice was soft, worried. She knew.

"She needs to... I need her," Ethan managed, the words a rasp.

Maria nodded, her kind eyes filled with pity.

"I'll tell her, sir. She's with Mr. Liam."

Maria went to the drawing-room door, knocked softly.

"Mistress Victoria? Mr. Ethan is... unwell. He requires your attention."

Victoria's voice, sharp, impatient.

"Later, Maria. Can't you see I'm busy?"

Dismissal, cold and final.

The fire intensified, agony clawing at him. He couldn't wait. He stumbled towards his small room in the servants' wing, his vision blurring. The pact demanded blood, her blood taken, or his given. If she wouldn't take, he would have to give.

He fumbled for the small, sharp letter opener he kept hidden. His hand shook as he pressed the cool metal to his forearm. A thin red line appeared, then welled. The pressure inside him eased, just a fraction. Not enough. He made another cut, deeper this time. The pain was a relief, a counterpoint to the pact's torment.

Blood dripped onto the worn wooden floor, dark against the pale grain. He slumped against the wall, panting. It was a temporary fix, a desperate measure.

Later, when the worst had passed, he pulled out the burner phone, the one Seraphina had given him. His fingers trembled as he typed the message.

It's bad. I can't do this anymore.

The reply came quickly.

I know. Are you ready?

Ethan stared at the words. Ready. He typed back.

Yes. Help me.

Soon. Stay strong.

The next morning, Maria found him. She cleaned his wounds with gentle hands, her face a mask of sorrow and disapproval.

"She shouldn't treat you this way, Mr. Ethan."

He just nodded, too weary to speak. Maria brought him weak tea and toast. The small kindness felt enormous.

Victoria swept into the kitchen hours later, radiant, refreshed. Liam was awake, apparently. She saw Ethan, his bandaged arm. Her eyes flickered over it, no comment.

"Ethan, my usual. And be quick about it."

Her usual was animal blood, warmed. He prepared it, his movements stiff.

He carried the silver goblet to the drawing-room. Victoria was there, perched on the edge of an ottoman, Liam propped up on the sofa, looking pale but intrigued.

She took the goblet, sniffed it, and her face twisted in disgust.

"Ugh, not this. Liam needs proper food. Human food. He's not one of us, you know."

She thrust the goblet back at Ethan, some of the dark liquid sloshing onto his hand.

Liam watched, his eyes wide.

"What is that stuff, Vic? And who's he?"

Victoria laughed, a dismissive sound.

"Oh, Ethan? He's just my Bound Attendant. The pact means I have to... well, feed from him sometimes. Don't worry your handsome head about it, darling. You're perfectly safe with me."

Her words. Just her Bound Attendant. Have to feed from him.

Seven years of devotion, of believing he was something more, shattered. He saw it then, the full extent of his self-deception. He was a convenience, a living blood bag.

He backed out of the room, the discarded goblet heavy in his hand.

Later, Victoria found him in the hall. She glanced at his bandaged arm again. A tiny muscle twitched in her jaw. Was it guilt?

"Those cuts... you shouldn't have to do that."

Her voice was softer than usual.

"Next time... next time, I'll save you. I promise."

An empty promise. He knew it. He felt nothing.

Liam, recovering quickly under Victoria's doting care, grew curious about the silent, watchful figure of Ethan.

"Hey, Vic," Liam said one afternoon, "why don't we all go for a walk? There's that nature preserve nearby, right? Get some fresh air."

He looked at Ethan. "You could come too, right?"

Ethan was surprised. An outing? He hadn't left the estate grounds with Victoria in over a year.

Victoria, eager to please Liam, smiled brightly.

"What a lovely idea, darling! Of course, Ethan can come. It's been ages since he's seen sunlight, poor thing."

Her tone was patronizing.

The preserve was green and gold in the late afternoon sun. Liam chattered, pointing out birds, his enthusiasm infectious. Victoria hung on his every word. Ethan walked a few paces behind, feeling like an uninvited shadow.

Victoria, in a playful mood, turned to Liam.

"Want to see something, my sweet?"

She leaned in, and with a theatrical flourish, let her fangs descend. They glinted, sharp and white.

Liam gasped, a mixture of fear and fascination in his eyes. "Wow, Vic. Amazing."

It was an intimacy she had never shown Ethan, not even in the beginning. He was just the source.

Ethan felt a familiar coldness seep into him. He was the outsider here, a necessary but unpleasant part of Victoria's entourage for the day. He slowed his pace, letting them walk ahead, their laughter drifting back to him.

Victoria glanced back, noticing his pallor.

"Ethan, you look dreadful. Stick to the animal blood for a while, alright? Don't want you fainting on us."

Her concern was superficial, a fleeting thought.

That evening, Victoria was in a strangely magnanimous mood.

"Ethan, you have that dreadful night job, don't you? At that... Transit Hub place."

He nodded. It was a discreet terminal for supernatural beings, a place few knew existed. His job there provided a small measure of independence.

"I'll escort you tonight," Victoria announced, as if bestowing a great favor. "It's been a while."

He felt a flicker of something, a ghost of hope. Maybe...

But as the hour for his shift approached, Victoria was engrossed with Liam, teaching him to play chess, her earlier offer forgotten.

He waited, then, as the clock ticked on, he left alone, the familiar weight of her neglect settling back into place.

A few days later, Victoria returned from a shopping trip, laden with bags. All for Liam, Ethan noted. She tossed a small, expensive-looking box at Ethan.

"Here. For you."

He opened it. A watch. Sleek, silver. It was beautiful, and utterly meaningless. An afterthought.

"Thank you, Mistress," he said, his voice flat. He put it on. It felt cold against his skin.

He didn't need a watch to mark the passing days of his servitude. He felt each one in his bones.