Bloodmark

27: Strawberries

[first draft; feedback, critique, and comments welcome; please point out any typos]

With each meal spent among the nobles, their Marks, and the Feeders, my body grows relaxed and more comfortable. If their eyes linger on me, my shoulders no longer lift toward my ears and my back doesn't tense. Sometimes goosebumps make an appearance, especially if Prince Laizef's predatory eyes follow me to my seat. If he's absent at mealtimes, though, it is like being with familiar company.

Every once in a while, I'll catch Felice's eye at breakfast. She'll shoot me a lazy grin or a wink. She always drapes herself over the table, her long, slender arms going on for what seems like miles. Her clothes slip off her curves, like all Feeders. And not a hint of shame or embarrassment or self-consciousness seeps from her.

Whenever Felice eats breakfast at the same time as Atlas and me, my thoughts revolve around her offer. To assuage my curiosities is tempting. And the more I think about her offer, the more I watch her. Her languid movements, her passive demeanor, the effortless seduction.

One vampyr morning, a pair of silver crescents stands out against her skin. They're at the intersection of neck and shoulder, and with her hair swept aside, it makes it easy to spot them.

For a moment, I stare at them, wondering how she'd gotten such unique markings. But halfway through my biscuit with marmalade spread, my mouth gapes with the realization: those are bite marks. A vampyr has fed from that spot enough times to give her a permanent scar. A shiver captures me, and my appetite subsides.

My mind whispers that perhaps King Atlas had given her those bites. I push away my plate.

Once I see the first marks, the rest become obvious. How have I not noticed them before? On her wrists, along her shoulders and neck, even on her cleavage—her skin is decorated in faint crescent moons. Her position as a Feeder is painted on her body, available for anyone to see.

My attention fixes on another nearby Feeder. Like Felice, his shirt slips off his shoulder. He has so few buttons done up, he might as well not bother buttoning up his shirt at all. Darker than Felice, the puncture marks are easier to find. He, too, is a canvas of past feedings. It astonishes me that they do not appear bothered by the scars.

It baffles me that I hadn't seen them before.

As King Atlas and I venture to our private wing after breakfast, questions swirl at the back of my throat. Do the scars bother them? Do they bother the vampyrs? Are the silver lines a testament to the pain of being fed upon? Or are they perhaps badges of honor and prestige?

When my mouth opens to ask Atlas, the words stop short. Could I really ask him these things? He's a vampyr, after all. He doesn't receive the scars—he gives them. To him, it is a side effect of feeding, of getting his necessary nutrients. Perhaps to a vampyr, the markings are inconsequential.