Chapter 6: Scrub

“I'm your master. You'll address me as such,” he growls, his voice low and full of menace.

I grit my teeth, my jaw locking tight. His piercing gaze flicks downward, catching the defiance in my clenched jaw, and his grip tightens around my neck. He tilts his head slightly, almost as if my resistance amuses him.

He's calmly awaiting my answer.

“I understand... Master,” I spit out, my words dripping with venom.

The moment I'm done speaking, he jerks me forward, slamming my frail, human body into his unyielding frame. His armor-like scales press against my skin, sharp and unrelenting. My hands instinctively fly to his arms, ready for attack, but the moment they make contact, his lips graze my ear.

“I'm going to break you,” he whispers, each word slow and deliberate. “I'm going to shatter you into a thousand pieces until there's nothing left but an empty shell.”

A chill snakes down my spine. My breathing quickens, my fingers digging into his arms as I silently curse my powerlessness. If I had a weapon, I’d plunge it straight into his heart.

“Good luck trying,” I hiss back, my voice defiant despite the tremor in it. “You won't break me.”

A low rumble emanates from his chest, reverberating between us like a dangerous warning. Something is stirring deep inside him.

“Do you want to know something fascinating about slaves, little butterfly?” he murmurs, leaning closer, his breath warm against my skin. I refuse to answer, keeping my silence as his other hand trails down to my waist. The touch is cold and possessive, and I fight the urge to flinch.

“They always love their masters in the end,” he says, his tone dark and edged with mockery. “It's not a choice. It’s survival. You'll love me, too. I promise.”

“I’d rather die,” I promise, my voice trembling with fury.

He chuckles, the sound dripping with malice. “We're not that kind here. We don't show that kind of mercy.”

Then he shoves me backward, his strength sending me stumbling. The rough scales of his shirt scrape against my fingers as I steady myself.

“Scrub every single floor of this castle,” he commands, his voice booming with authority. “Only then will you get food and water.” He turns slightly, addressing his man in command. “Yilu, get her some clothes.”

A sack lands unceremoniously in my face. The smell is horrid, and I crinkle my nose in disgust. The coarse fabric scratches my skin as I quickly pull it over my head. It barely covers me and feels like sandpaper against my raw skin, but at least I’m no longer exposed. I glance at the women who are still intently staring. They look at me with hungry eyes. I avoid looking at their naked bodies.

I look back at the king.

“Can I go now?” I ask, my tone laced with sarcasm and defiance.

His nostrils flare. For a fleeting moment, his pupils narrow into dragon-like slits.

I'm pissing him off.

Good.

I bet that's not a difficult thing to do.

“Yilu,” he says, his tone eerily calm, his eyes never leaving mine.

“My King?” Yilu answers dutifully.

“Make sure she’s in my bed when she’s done. Bathe her first.” His silver eyes show nothing but evil intent.

He's not going to touch me.

A hiss from across the room draws my attention. One of the women lounging on the couch glares at me, her sharp eyes burning with jealousy. Her contempt mirrors my own. I don't want to be here, either.

“Yes, my King,” Yilu replies, breaking the moment. I look at the dragon who's walking towards me with a rag and bucket in hand. “Zakiel!” He barks next. I don't turn around, but hear shuffling behind me. No doubt Zakiel.

“Guide her to the top floor. When she's done, bring her to me,” Yilu directs the vampire.

“Yes, my lord,” I hear as answer.

Without another word, I snatch the rag and bucket from Yilu's outstretched hands and march toward Zakiel. The sackcloth chafes against my skin and barely covers my ass, but I don’t complain. Zakiel falls into step beside me, leading the way up the castle stairs.

I'm fuming.

Who does he think he is?

We climb flight after flight, the cold stone sapping what little strength I have left. After what feels like an eternity, I stop abruptly. “I can't walk anymore,” I state seriously. “We're not even halfway there,” Zakiel replies as he looks up. “I don't care. My body is empty. One more step and I'll drop dead,” I half sob.

Zakiel studies me for a moment before sighing. “Come here.”

Before I can protest, his arms encircle me, and he pulls me against his chest. The chill of his skin seeps through his clothes, and I shiver involuntarily. I look up at him, startled by his sudden action. His red-tinted eyes meet mine briefly.

“Hold tight,” he instructs softly.

And he flies up.

The air rushes past me as Zakiel takes flight. My breath catches in my throat as the ground blurs beneath us. My mouth falls open with wonder. I'm flying! My arms tighten around his neck as I bury my face against his cold chest, marveling at the sensation of soaring through the air.

Within moments, we reach the top of the castle. The wind howls through the corridors, and the temperature is noticeably colder.

“Thank you,” I whisper as he sets me down gently.

“Anytime,” he murmurs, his voice equally soft.

I glance up at him, hesitant. “What will my future look like here?”

Zakiel hesitates, and the weight of his silence crushes me.

My father will come for me soon. And my two brothers. I know they will.

“Listen,” Zakiel says, tilting my chin up so I’m forced to meet his eyes. “You’re strong. You can handle this. Use your head, stay smart. Don’t fall for his traps.”

I nod, committing his words to memory. “The other servants… What are they?” I ask.

“Vampires, demons, fairies, werewolves, mermaids—every creature you can imagine. Dragons are at the top of the food chain,” he explains, his lips quirking into a faint smirk. “Maybe there’s an alien species stronger than them, but I doubt it. We can only hope.”

I manage a weak smile, but it quickly fades as reality sinks in. I’m trapped in the clutches of the most powerful creature in existence—the Dragon King.

And I haven't even seen an actual dragon yet.

My family will come for me. I know they will. But I don’t say it out loud. Instead, I force a tight smile at Zakiel. “I guess I should start.”

For hours, I’m on my knees, scrubbing. After a week of torture, blood loss, starvation, and just one glass of water, I’m teetering between life and death. The floor blurs beneath my aching hands, and I work mechanically. Zakiel comes in occasionally to refresh the bucket of water. His pitying stares burn holes into my back, but he doesn’t say anything.

My knees are scraped raw and bleeding. My fingers are numb, swollen. My heart feels ready to give up. When the bucket is taken from me after hours, my body collapses onto the wooden floor, but I barely register the pain. I’m empty.

Then, someone lifts me. Gentle arms cradle my broken body, carrying me as though I’m weightless. I feel like a butterfly drifting on a breeze.

I frown when I think about that word.

Butterflies are supposed to be free.

I am not free.

I half-wake in a warm bath. The water laps against my chin, soothing my frigid skin. A sigh escapes my lips, an involuntary expression of relief. For the first time in what feels like forever, I’m warm. I want to cry with happiness, but my body is too drained to produce tears.

My cheek rests against the edge of the tub as I blink sluggishly. Yilu. The right hand of the King is here. His broad, imposing figure moves around the marble bathroom with unnerving precision. Every motion is calculated, controlled. When he feels my gaze, his dark eyes meet mine. There is no pity in them, only a cold detachment that feels sharper than any blade.

I hate dragons.

“Drink,” he orders, pointing to a glass of water beside me. But my limbs refuse to obey.

I can't move. I can't even speak.