Chapter 10 : Violated
805 Words
I don’t know how long I’ve been unconscious, but something feels different.
A soft breeze brushes against my skin, warm and soothing, carrying the delicate scent of fresh jasmine and morning dew. Sunlight kisses my face, wrapping me in a golden embrace, and somewhere in the distance, birds chirp cheerfully, their melody so light and carefree that it seems to mock the storm raging inside me.
This can’t be real.
My mind struggles to grasp what’s happening. The last thing I remember is the bitter cold of the dungeon, the suffocating darkness, the dampness that seeped into my bones. But this… this is warmth. This is comfort. This is the opposite of where I should be.
My fingers twitch against the softness beneath me, hesitant, searching. The fabric is smooth, impossibly luxurious—not the coarse, threadbare excuse of a mattress I was left to rot on. My heart pounds as I force myself to explore further, fingertips gliding over satin sheets, skimming across plush pillows.
Is this a dream? A cruel trick?
I can’t stay like this, lost in uncertainty. I need to be brave. I need to see.
Taking a steadying breath, I crack my eyes open—only to be instantly met with an overwhelming brightness. I wince, my pupils burning as they adjust, the light nearly blinding after the endless shadows of my cell. I squeeze them shut, breathing through the sting before trying again.
Slowly, the room comes into focus.
And what I see steals the breath from my lungs.
The walls are painted in rich, elegant shades of cream, their smooth surfaces practically glowing beneath the golden sunlight that filters through sheer, flowing curtains. A thick royal blue carpet spreads luxuriously across the floor, its fibers deep and plush, muffling any movement.
And the bed—the bed—is covered in champagne-colored satin, the fabric shimmering with every shift of my body. Dark green pillows are scattered throughout the space, a striking contrast against the softer hues. Near the grand window, an antique seating area rests beneath the sunlight, the cushions so inviting it looks as if royalty themselves have lounged there for generations.
Everything about this place oozes wealth, power, and status.
My pulse quickens. I have never seen such luxury in my life.
I sit up cautiously, the sheets pooling around me, and that’s when I notice it—the shift in fabric against my skin.
Something is wrong.
My clothes—they’re not mine.
I glance down, my breath catching as realization slams into me.
A long, elegant satin nightgown drapes over my frame, its inky black fabric flowing like liquid silk against my body. The front dips scandalously low, exposing the soft curves of my breasts in a way that makes heat rush to my face.
My stomach twists.
I would never wear something like this.
Someone dressed me.
Someone touched me.
And then, the horrifying realization strikes like a bolt of lightning.
He.
The devil.
Lucien.
My face lights up like a damn lightbulb, heat spreading from my toes to my cheeks in a scorching wave of embarrassment. My fingers clutch the satin fabric desperately, as if I can somehow undo what has already been done.
Lucien undressed me.
My mind reels at the thought, a thousand unwanted images flashing through my head. Did he do it himself? Did he watchme? Was it clinical, indifferent—or something far, far worse?
And then, the worst possible thought slams into me with bone-chilling force.
His eyes.
They must have wandered.
They must have seen.
A sharp, strangled gasp escapes my lips, my entire body locking up in horror.
Lucien saw me.
All of me.
Heat burns across my skin, but not from embarrassment—from shame. From violation. From the gut-wrenching realization that I had been utterly exposed to the man who had stolen me, who had toyed with me like a cat playing with its prey.
I curl into myself, my arms wrapping around my chest as if I can somehow undo the past, as if I can shield myself from his lingering presence.
What did he see? How long did he look?
My stomach churns violently, bile rising in my throat.
Panic surges through me like ice water, my hands trembling as I clutch the sheets to my chest, desperate to cover myself.
If he’s done this—what else has he done?
I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling sharply, trying to drown out the rising fear clawing at my throat. I feel no pain. No aches, no soreness, no unfamiliar bruises.
That has to mean… nothing else happened. Right?
I swallow hard, praying to whatever unseen force that might be listening.
Because the thought of what could have been done to me is almost worse than the nightmare I’ve already endured.
- Writer
