For the fifty-ninth time that evening, Flora Donne repeated the same verse of her favourite song from where she lay upon the floor, her back pressed against the stone wall, her dinner tray untouched by her side. How could she possibly eat, when he would be arriving soon? She was certain that it was his time to visit, though it so happened that she often forgot which day she was in. But she knew that dinner always arrived at the same time. And she knew that her Master always arrived after sixty-three renditions of the verse, if she began to sing from the moment that the tray was placed onto the ground. It is the right day, she told herself, even as her tongue rolled her soprano voice into the stuffy air. He will come. He will come.
At the distant end of the corridor outside her cell, Flora heard the heavy metal door unlock, creaking open to admit a visitor. She scrambled to her feet, toppling the tray in her haste, though, too overwhelmed with excitement, she did not notice and did not care. Her heart would surely burst from her chest, it was beating so much. There were butterflies in her stomach, electricity in her skin. She rushed across the little cell, bare feet softly padding until she reached the door without a window. With bated breath, she waited. The silence seemed to consume her, but it was alive, bristling with a force for which she longed, unlike the silence that weighed on her isolation. He must always speak first. She liked this. She liked to hear his velveteen voice, smooth and quiet.
"You were singing, my Flower."
"Yes, Sir," she gasped. "I sing for you."
If he would only come in. But she knew better than to ask. It displeased him, when she did - it made him leave. But she was just a girl, and all she wanted was to see the face of the man who had enchanted her with his gentle words and beautiful promises. She did not know that he had placed her there, and if she had ever discovered the truth, she would not have believed it. He was the only light in her darkness, and yet she craved for him to enter it, to share what she must endure, to deliver her suffering instead of the guards for whom she had no care. Just a moment, to feel his hands upon her skin.
He never stayed for long. But tonight was different. The man lingered. She heard him pacing the floor behind the door, and there was a growl that she did not recognise, though she knew it expressed frustration.
"There is something that you must know," he said. "If we meet, I will want to make you mine. I must drink your blood. I must taste you."
In the darkness, she widened her eyes. Her heart seemed to stop, and little did she know that her Master could hear its every terrified stutter.
"Are you afraid?"
For the smallest moment, Flora did not think that she could be anything else. Horror clenched her lungs and scratched her throat raw. But her desire was stronger, and her desperation was stronger still. She longed for him. She thought of how she craved for him to enter her cell and touch her in the way that the guards did. She thought of his hand between her legs, his lips against her ear, speaking those soft words, calling her perfect, instead of the strange names that the guards used - slut, whore. She wanted him so badly that it crippled every other aspect of her pointless existence. She would do anything to have her dream fulfilled. She would do anything to feel him. She would give everything.
Even through the metal, his sigh was audible. Relief lingered on its edge, but it was its pleasure that stirred the girl’s soul and brought her to splay her hands against the door, in the futile attempt to be closer to him.
"You are perfect," he told her.