Bite Me Royal... (Mature Vampire Romance 18+)

Chapter Six

The pic above is of Zyir...

It is now eve. The skies are a blend of a light lavender, a baby pink hue and a deep orange. The sun that formerly blazed begins to set in the horizon. A flock of birds is seen, also. Ship finally comes upon the lands of Akhila Kingdom and docks. It is a fertile land, green and prosperous. It blooms and blossoms with life and the proud palm trees take up most part of the earth.

Soldiers of the Akhila Army work to bind our wrists using the thickness of rough sisal ropes in one long human chain -courtesy of Amir’s command. Songs of jubilation and praise pierce into the gentleness of the early evening whilst five more soldiers tug upon our bounds, leading us to exit the ship.

I hardly come to terms with the fact that this is but my new life. I have been a maiden slave for all my life, yes. But never have I succumbed to such levels of torture, to such low levels of raw emotional turmoil. My bare and bruised feet make contact with the wetness of the banks, banks filled with little papyrus reeds and floating water hyacinth and dripping greenly grass.

My bounds are yanked, my back pushed so that I move forward. More splashing noises resonate. The saltiness of the waters stings the wounds plastered upon the soles of my feet and I hiss lowly, swallow the bitterness that nearly consumes.

Amir finally graces the people of Akhila with his presence. Ululations and songs of jubilation rise, they seemingly increase and accelerate with each moment that fleets like violent ocean tides. He steps off the ship and a young lass clothed in royal silk robes, golden bracelets and necklaces and pretty little anklets proceeds towards him, cups his cheek so lovingly, smiles so sweetly.

Her head tilts a little and the wavy hairs that tickle the small of her back sway as she does. Oh, but who should be capable of loving a man such as he? And yet the resemblance between both she and the lad remains uncanny. Siblings, perhaps?

The ropes that bind us are tugged upon once more. The whistling of whip sounds and a shriek -pain filled, sorrowful- follows suit.
I suck in one gulp of the much-needed air, lower my head, tread on despite myself. Truly, I remain fatigued, famished and yet sleep-deprived. Thus having my back whipped to a fleshy pulp is not well within my intent. I need not draw any attention upon myself.

They bring us upon vast sandy fields, our captors. They line as in one straight row and pour upon us pales and pales of cold water. The coldness of it flows through our flimsy clothes and scrapes so mercilessly at our skins. I shiver, my lips quiver, my teeth rattle together, the thick thread-like hairs of my head leak with one droplet, two droplets, more droplets.

My knees begin to buckle, the world about me begins to spin, my vision dims, my knees kiss the sandy earth beneath in a soft thudding. A mistake of sorts? Most certainly. The whistling of whip sounds so dangerously close. It strikes once, strikes twice, strikes thrice, and the scarlet begins to leak and trickle down my backside.

A shriek slices through the chaos, only this time, ‘tis my own. My palms grip into the sand and clutch firmly at the coarse little grains. Oh, how I battle against the tears that well and fall without shame. They punish us, a sanction for our frailty, a thing that is outside my control in this very moment. And yet they too remain slaves to their own masters, no higher than we in a sense.

“Rise, slave!” gruff tone grits and my hairs are yanked on.

I rise, of course I do. What choice have I? My breathes are ragged. My chest heaves. A crippling pain pierces into my left side -a stitch. I furiously rub at the single tear that lingers. Grace, I loath it here more than I did in Raiz. I exhale a sharp breath as the waters from a pale are poured upon my head.

I look upon myself, take notice of how the waists of my skirts are now a gruesome bloody hue, take notice of how the dirtied and browning clothe tied around my bosom clings to me and remains translucent. The pebble of each breast traces out so clearly.

I gaze upon the soldier and he gazes upon my chest shamelessly, lustfully. With a single arm, I work to shield myself from those demonic eyes that scrutinize. He smirks but dares not attempt anything witless. And my heart burns. I yearn with everything inside me to slap the smirk off his face. But, grace, I know better than to fall into that temptation…

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