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Wolves hunt when the day sleeps. It’s easier to see the heart in the dark when the body can no longer hide in the light—easier to smell out the fear that dances in tandem with each wild beat as prey whines from burning lungs and feet. Most of all, the flesh is far, far sweeter. Sweat slicked skin rubbing against teeth, spit and drool spinning into one, all of it a glorious ritual of shame. At least, glorious for the wolf. All-consuming, all pleasurable, all shameful, for the coward wolf who claws at its bunny.
It’s survival. Iris knows this, watched it from her towers as forests caged her in and choice became a luxury. If a bunny wants to survive, she must stay obedient; reverent of her saviour, who promises it will never truly eat her alive.
She tries to breathe in deeply, to focus on the expansion of her lungs and the departure of air, but all she could see reflected in front of her were hollow eyes and red lips. She raises her hand, turns it from side to side. The fear after realizing she could not feel it at all never arrives.
She doesn’t remember when she got on stage, or when she hiked her skirt up just a bit to tease and hook on the men she was certain she saw out at the park walking with their wives, rings glinting too brightly under her stage lights. But she moves anyway. What her mind could no longer muster, her body would accomplish.
And he’s here tonight, the highest bidder for her attention among her patrons, who’s all smiles and light-hearted humor. He’s sickeningly sweet when the candle lights softly frame his green eyes alluringly, and even more so when those very eyes are set only on her.
“You should leave, Ris. Trap Revis with a silver ring and be done with it,”
Iris’s eyelashes flutter in surprise as she wills the fog in her mind to dissipate.
“I apologize, pardon?” she lifts her head to Lakam, beginning to feel the lousy wooden chair beneath her thighs and the tight, hot fabric of her dress.
“Count Revis. He’s been your sponsor for years. He looks at you with love as they do in the books; he even gave you such an expensive hairpin!” Lakam swoons and falls onto the floor, her head nestling on Iris’s lap as the latter drags a clean cloth against her face, pigment seeping in the white cotton. Lakam squints against the mirror lights, trying to read Iris’ face. She gives up when she realizes all she would catch was the glint of the emerald dangling from the entertainer’s hairpin.
“If I were as pretty as you, I would have already found someone like Count Revis and be happily married,”
Iris lands her sight on the dream-dazed child on her lap, her brows furrowed as fingers move to pinch soft cheeks.
“You are but 14. There is no rush for marriage.”
Lakam yelps at the pain, her palm quick to soothe the stinging skin.
“Lakam,”
Iris cradles the child’s cheeks, Lakam’s warmth pulling her into reality and away from the haze that she’d been trapped in earlier.
“Marriage is not the cure to this poison we’re in.”
“Those men out there, they care not for us. They have no love in their hearts, only lust. Do not reduce your life’s greatest accomplishment to the foolish desire of being someone’s pet,”
“But I wouldn’t be someone’s pet, Ris–” Lakam smiles, electing to take Iris’s words as something silly. “I would be loved. And wouldn’t that be wonderful? To be utterly wanted and desired?”
There’s a certain turn in Iris’s stomach that makes her skin crawl when she sees how awestruck Lakam’s eyes are. Or maybe it wasn’t Lakam’s blatant want to be fed with affection, no matter how it was made or where it came from, but from knowing why it was born.
“If I were loved, I could go back home. I know you don’t ever want to go home—” Lakam shrugs away from her hold, forehead once more resting on her lap “-but I want to go home. I miss the smell of wood varnish in summer, I miss the feeling of soft grass between my toes, and I… I think I miss my brother,” she says slowly, her fingers fidgeting against the smooth stone floor.
“Sometimes, I think I miss Daer the most.”
A hushed silence envelopes the tavern, neither child nor entertainer wanting to face the other.
Iris sighs deeply, shifting to sit on the floor as well.
“Unwanted children have no right to want or miss anything. Desiring what we will never have, or what doesn’t want us, is a sure path towards destruction.”
“...”
“...”
“You’re horrible at this,” Lakam faces her body towards Iris, an accusatory finger pointed towards the latter’s chest.
“I’m being truthful,”
“You don’t have to be cruel to be truthful,”
“It’s not cruel to spare you years of heartbreak by imparting wisdom that took me far too long to realize; it’s actually rather kind.”
Lakam scoffs, the sharp scent of liquor tickling her nose as her fingers tug at the loose threads of her skirt. She still believed, as any child would, that love would save her—that she would catch the eye of some kind, rich, and generous noble as Iris did.
She’d watched the way Revis trailed after the singer when the lights had dimmed and the merriment long hushed down. Saw how he gripped her waist and whispered what she supposed were sweet nothings until they finally hid behind one of the many heavy oak doors of the tavern.
“He’s been waiting for you outside for a while now”
“I know.”
“Then why don’t you go to him? Oh, are you perhaps teasing him? Madame always did tell me that men love a good chase!”
It takes a great deal of strength for not a sliver of disgust to present itself on the singer’s face. There is no reason for a child ever to be taught such a thing. It wouldn’t be long before she could finally settle her affairs and take Lakam away, somewhere where she could have a proper education, where brothels and taverns weren’t home but instead a faraway and distant memory. Only a few more nights, then she’ll be able to secure passage, as well as new identities and protection to be able to escape. She just needed to entertain Revis for a few more nights, and then she would have gathered enough information to enact her plan.
There’s a distinct sting of hatred in her heart when she remembers how she was abandoned, how she had no one but herself to survive. It’s bittersweet, knowing how she can care for Lakam, to give her a choice, when the Gods were not merciful enough to bestow upon her the same treatment. Sometimes, she’s afraid that the hatred has begun to grow and be directed towards Lakam. It’s filthy, selfish, and horrid. And it terrifies her how her own hurt was unraveling and so close to bleeding onto someone innocent.
Iris faces her palm flat against the cool floor and stands up, hands slowly brushing her dress to smooth out any wrinkles and dust off whatever clung to the cheap red fabric.
“It would be wiser to cut this one short; Revis was never one for patience.”
She stalls for a moment, her hand frozen on the wooden door frame of the dressing room as she steadies her shallow breathing.
“Go to bed, the sun will have risen when I return.”
Lakam only nods, a comfortable smile on her lips, still held tightly by the dream of love and kind-hearted Counts.
She will never know why the oak doors are so heavy, so thick that screams become too muffled to matter to anyone. A child has no place in knowing the feeling of cold fingers slipping underneath your garter, of sharp nails ripping stockings and clawing your inner thighs as you bite your lip, trying to feel strong.
Count Revis is a simple man. He relishes the feeling of control, feels so giddy from the high it gives him that he won’t stop until something, or someone, breaks. It is far more appealing, satisfactory even, when he gets to peel and undo the intricate layers of a certain stubborn singer. His fingers trace the curve of her neck, his thumb pushing against the tip of her chin as he bites and sucks the tender skin. His excitement shivers down his spine, pumps blood into his cock.
This is survival. This is survival. This is survival. Do whatever it takes to survive.
Iris is not vain nor naive. She understood that she was pretty and desirable to many. She was familiar with the influence she wielded, how charm swayed hearts and cocks. So she would do whatever she had to do. She would touch what elicited want; she would lick whatever built need; she would suck what ensured that power was hers.
It was filthy and shameful. It disgusted her so deeply that sometimes her throat burned, and her skin felt too dirty, too stained, too ruined to sit upon her flesh. But good bunnies have no such thoughts. They moan prettily, whine softly or wildly, legs twitching, backs arching, bending to the wolf’s desire.
Prey that can be played with live longer than those that don’t entertain.
“So good, so good for me,” the wolf sighs needily, voice strained as he slams her against a table, her hips burning from the impact. He never notices how she winces in pain. His fingers tangle against the thin fabric of her dress, rushing to lift it and find purchase on her now bruising hips.
“You’ll always listen, won’t you? Always be waiting for me like a good girl,” his eyes glaze over, sharp fangs peeking from parted lips as his cock intrudes inside her.
He’s cold. Too cold.
It reminds her of winter in her hometown, of the frosty blue tiles of her room that she would sit on when the softness of her bed began to creep on her. She stays in that memory, focuses on the feeling of the smooth tiles, of the shadow of snow flying like fairies. Anything to keep her away from him, anything to stay away from now.
When she doesn’t answer, Revis stops.
Iris had forgotten,
Count Revis is a simple man.
When control slips from him, when he inevitably falls off from that high, he’ll lash out like a rabid animal—desperate to be powerful, utterly unable to face the remnants of his pathetic nature when fear no longer grants entry for his abuse.
Claws wrap around her neck before she could realize, before she could wake up from her half-dream. She could not even scream before they squeezed until her vocal cords grated against each other; air cut off so suddenly that the edges of her mind felt fuzzy.
It takes far too long for her mind to snap into reality, fear smothering her lungs and jumping into her heart. She tries to rip his hands away from her throat, tries to beg and plead, even though no coherent word could form on her tongue as tears burned against her cheek. All he does is squeeze and look, look upon her with growing glee as he regains control of her, desire pooling in his stomach as he garners all of her attention.
“Such a beautiful expression,”
“So beautiful”
He loosens his grip for a few seconds, her chest rising sharply as she inhales, then strangles her again, softly laughing at how the relief reflected on her eyes came and was stolen just as quickly. There’s a stray thought in her slowly fracturing mind of how his finger must hurt as a golden wedding band pinches not only her skin, but his as well.
“I wonder, how will your lovely face contort when I bring her in? That little girl who always clings to you? What sweet noises will you make when I strip her bare in front of you?”
Hollow, all-consuming, and wretched hopelessness bites into her heart as weakness tingles at the tip of her fingers and toes before swallowing her whole. Everything she had ever done, everything she had endured, was all useless. She was useless. Too stupid not to have run away sooner, too foolish to have ever thought she could have made a difference. With her selfishness, she had killed Lakam. Her head reels with fear, a dizzying guilt beginning to inch up her throat, and for a moment, she thought it would be kindness to fall asleep as consciousness slips from her.
Bunnies cannot outrun wolves. They are, by nature, meant to be playthings for their superior. They have no purpose outside of the perception of wolves. They are sweet for the tongue of wolves, they are soft for the touch of wolves, they exist for the pleasure and convenience of wolves.
“Ris?..”
And when one alone cannot satisfy
Revis loosens his grip, ears pricked at the familiar, sleepy voice.
Who could blame a hunting wolf who must satiate his needs?
When the wolf smiles, his teeth shine too brightly, each sharp edge glinting against the moonlight. His eyes flit from the door to Iris, revelling in the rapid horror that sharpens with each passing second on her face. His claws drop from her neck, voice strained when he pulls a still hard cock out of her, exhilaration throwing him higher and higher than he’s ever been before as his footsteps inch nearer towards the door and oxygen floods her still dazed brain.
“I know you said I should go to bed, and I shouldn’t disturb you when you’re with a patron, but-”
The door opens abruptly, revealing only soft eyes and a softer smile.
His fingers curl around long and rough ebony strands, knowing all too well how easy it was to lure a child with sweetness and fantasy. But he had forgotten something, as all simple men do.
Prey have teeth, just as they do.
Prey have claws, just as they do.
Prey are wild animals, just as they are, whose ruling instinct is to survive.
Green blurs past his vision too quickly as pin-prick gold lodges into his chin, his tongue caught in the cold length of the metal. Iris has no time to savour the sound of blood flooding his throat and drowning his lungs, nor enjoy the terror infecting his every muscle.
She clasps Lakam’s hand in hers and runs, runs as far away and as quickly as she can. There was no going back now, no singing or dancing to hide behind, no desire to manipulate. The wet cobblestone grated against her bare feet until she bled, but it didn’t matter. Not now, not when the blood on her hands is more than enough for the rest of the wolves to catch one of their own’s scent. It won’t be long before someone in the tavern realizes what she’s done and hunts her down.
But for now, they were free. In this small moment of respite, the air is fresh, the moon is bright, and it’s a perfect night. She almost laughs, almost feels joy spill out from her and replace her prickling anxiety with electrifying euphoria.
When the burn of her calves and the sticky blood of her feet have grown too much to bear, they finally stop at an alleyway by the edge of the city. Her chest burns with every deep heave, sweat gliding from her forehead to her nose until it drips onto the cobblestone. Lakam pulls her hand away so quickly that it strains Iris’s shoulder.
“How could you do that? Why would you betray Revis!”
Lakam hugs her arm, voice wavering as she reels from having watched Iris kill her supposed lover.
“He was going to hurt you—I had no choice. I did what I had to do.” Iris tries to answer calmly, ignoring the irritation and anger nagging at her as she steadies herself against the brick wall.
“He was going to propose tonight! He told me so himself-”
“If he had truly loved me, why did he touch you so earlier? You’re not so naive that you wouldn’t have noticed the way he looked at you. I won’t let him do to you what he did to me. I should have even cut off his tongue for the way he spoke about you.”
She mutters the last sentence to herself, aware of how any more violence might just push Lakam too far off the edge.
Lakam opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. Shock grips her tightly, tighter than dreams of love ever did. She could only muster to slump against the wall beside Iris and fall to her knees.
Iris tries to ignore how pain has begun to creep in as her adrenaline fizzles out. She endured all those nights with Count Revis for one purpose: extracting information about his network of corrupt nobles so that she could make a deal with the Princess of Devonia. She was unable to learn of the final noble, but the rest of her information would have to do.
She’d have to find the Princess tonight. She had already arranged an ‘accidental’ meeting to occur in a few days, but she couldn’t risk losing the Princess now. Her highness had only been visiting the city, and who knows when the capital would summon her back for some sort of state emergency, or the unpredictable King’s whims.
Her breathing steadies as she reconfigurates her plan, hope surfacing bit by bit that everything was going to be okay.
“I just wanted you to be happy,” A small voice whispers. If the night hadn’t been so still, no ear would have caught such fragile words.
“I thought that, if you married Count Revis, you wouldn’t have to sing to those old perverts every night anymore. You always look so empty when you do that, like it’s killing you”
“When you first arrived, you sparkled so bright. You said you loved performing. But then you started getting tired and-”
“You thought Revis would fix that?”
Lakam lowers her head in shame.
“Oh, you silly, foolish, and kind child,” for once in a long time, Iris smiles. Not her practiced, charming smile meant to enthrall—it was light, tinged with belief. The kind that crinkled her eyes.
She pinches Lakam’s cheeks gently.
“Your job is to eat, grow strong, and be annoying. Adult problems must be left to the adults.”
Lakam leans against her shoulder, weariness dragging her shoulders down.
“So you’re happy?”
“I’ll be happy when we get out,”
“Then let’s get out. Let’s get out and celebrate every day!”
Iris snorts at that, not out of malice or irritation, but out of lightheartedness.
Children often have the remarkable ability to be joyous, regardless of the situation. Partly because they don’t know whether that was as terrible as it could be, or if it could be worse. They are little hope machines, still too young to realize the full extent of what they deserve.
That’s why it’s not surprising for children to, now and then, die happily. It is perhaps a mercy that Lakam had never realized this would be her final night, or that she felt no pain when her forehead thudded dully against wet stone, now short ebony hair brushing against Iris’s fingers.
The scent of metal conquers the air, swarming Iris’s senses as it drags bile up from her sour stomach and scorches her nose. For a moment, time has stopped for her. She can no longer breathe again, limbs paralyzed by thousands of needles as blood rushes so quickly into her head that she’s back to that familiar fuzzy, dizzying cage.
Her mind filters out the sharp gargles of blood from the Count, tongue still writhing as it failed to flex well enough to form basic syllables. Instead, it nails her focus on Lakam’s frozen smile.
Unwanted children should never have any desires.
Never.