Broken Beauty and the Beastly Vampire Prince

Broken

Trigger warning. This chapter contains mention of s****l assault and may prove triggering to some. Please do not read if this may be triggering to you.

Third Person POV

She lay on the mattress, her body bruised and bloodied, her spirit broken. Every muscle in her body ached as she sat up, protesting, blood staining her thighs. She trembled all over. Her hair was a matted mess. Her eyes were dry, having run out of tears long ago. She put a shaking hand to the back of her head, wincing from the pain, a headache throbbing behind her eyes. No doubt due to the drug she had been given. It had run out of her system and she could move now. Part of her wished she had been given a fatal dose. It would have been far preferable to living through what they had done to her and to have to wake up afterward and relive it all over again. A lone tear trailed down her cheek as she fought to keep from screaming, the pain was that intense. Not just physical but the emotional pain she felt as well.

She had been brutalized. Her mouth was dry. She licked her lips and then got up, to her feet. They had left the chains off, after they had left her down here, alone, sobbing, locking the door behind them. It had felt like a lifetime. In reality, it had been only a few hours but that was of little comfort to Rosalie. She looked down at the shredded remains of the transparent white babydoll and grabbed them, flinging them across the room, her mouth open in a silent scream. She slowly got to her feet, staggering slightly. She made her way, ever so slowly, into the bathroom, shuffling like a little old lady, pain shooting through her with every movement she made. She stifled back her cries and turned to peer into the mirror. The reflection in the mirror stared back at her dumbly.

There was a large bruise on her cheek and her eyes were red and puffy. Her lip was split and there was dried blood on it. Her nails were torn and bloody. There were bite marks on her shoulder and neck. She could see finger marks around her throat. She shuddered and glanced down, seeing the bruises littering the rest of her body as well as the dried blood on her thighs. Another tear trailed down her cheek. She turned the water on, as hot as she could stand it, hopping into the shower and scrubbing herself over and over again, unable to get the feeling of degradation and revulsion off of her. She felt dirty. Used. She made keening noises as she sat in the bottom of the shower, huddled in a small ball, letting the water wash over her, the tears finally bursting free, her screams hoarse and desperate, full of grief and anguish. Nothing would wash away the memories of what they had done to her, or the feel of their hands upon her body.

She would never feel clean again. Even now, she could hear her screams and cries, her pleas for them to stop as she shuddered. She closed her eyes, forcing the memories out. She couldn’t bear to think about it. Couldn’t bear to relive it again. If she did, she might never survive. She stayed in the shower, well past when her fingers and toes became wrinkled and the water went cold before she began shivering.

She moved robotically, standing up and turning the water off with great reluctance. She stepped out and grabbed a shower, still wincing in pain, and wrapped it delicately around her sore and hurting body. She brushed her teeth, over and over and then, headed back inside the basement which also was her bedroom. She strode to the dresser and put on panties, a bra, long loose sweatpants, and an overflowing sweatshirt before grabbing a hairbrush and sitting gingerly on the threadbare mattress. Silently, occasionally sniffling, she began to brush her long red hair, working through it and methodically undoing each and every tangle, using it as a distraction so she wouldn’t have to think or feel. She was numb. She was trying her hardest to become detached. Trying to escape reality by pretending she was elsewhere.

Although the chains had been undone, they were still there, mocking her with their presence. She glared at them with hatred in her eyes. They were a symbol of her imprisonment and the loss of her innocence. She heard the lock of the door slowly unclick and tensed, fear pulsing through her. Were they coming back? She didn’t think she could survive much more. She gritted her teeth and held the hairbrush like a bat, even though it would do precious little good as a weapon. Her whole body shook as she sat, pain ricocheting through her body, her eyes wide as she waited, her body poised to run, despite the pain.

Only one set of footsteps sounded down the stairs. She didn’t relax though. She stood, body trembling, backing away into a corner of the room, her breathing heavy, her eyes wide with fear. Mick slowly came into view.

“Whoa there,” he said, holding his hands up, one clutching a brown paper bag as she eyed him with pure hatred “I brought you food,” he said as though that was some sort of consolation.

“I don’t want it” she rasped. She didn’t want anything from him ever again.

“You need to eat” he urged “You can’t just starve yourself.”

Why not? Why should he care? He had gotten what he wanted from her. He and his friends had, she thought to herself bitterly. She felt her heart quicken even more. Unless he was planning on using her more? God, please no, she thought a little hysterically, She couldn't survive another horrible experience. It would break her, more than she already was. She would rather beg for death and hope they grant it then go through it all over again.

“You probably drugged it” she hissed, still holding the hairbrush threateningly.

He rolled his eyes and fished out the food, a sandwich and an apple. He bit into the sandwich in front of her, swallowing hard. “See, not drugged,” he said “Besides you’re hardly in a state to please us again, at least not so soon,” he said without remorse.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to bash his head against a wall until he was bleeding to death on the floor. She wanted him to die a slow and painful death. Cut his manhood off and feed it to him. All this and so much more went through her mind. Involuntarily her fingers twitched, the urge to do so almost overwhelming.

He put the sandwich back in the bag and threw it to her. It fell to the ground in front of her. She eyed it without blinking. If he thought she was going to make the mistake of going for it, then he was sadly mistaken. He had fooled her once, she would be damned if she fell for the same stupid trick again.

“You might as well put the damn hairbrush down. What do you think you're going to do to me?” he sneered “Beat me to death?”

He threw back his head and laughed as she flinched. Still, she brandished it, her grip so tight that the knuckles on the back of her hand turned white. It was still better than nothing. She might even get at least one good hit in before he took her down.

He bent to pick up the chains. Rosalie eyed the door. He sensed her looking and gave her a wolfish grin. “Go ahead” he encouraged her “try it. Let’s see how far you make it before I get to you."

He gave a chuckle, his eyes twinkling, amusement on his face. The bastard would enjoy tackling her as she ran for her freedom.

She hesitated. With the amount of pain, she was in, was she likely to make it? He smirked and even moved back a few paces. She threw the hairbrush at him and he ducked as she ran, past him and up a few stairs, adrenaline racing through her, the pain forgotten, before she felt his hand on her ankle, yanking it. So close, she thought miserably, and yet it might as well have been the distance of a football oval for all the good it did her.

She yelped as she was flung onto her stomach and dragged by the ankle, kicking and flailing to the floor. Mick stood over her, looking mischievous.

“Well can’t say you didn’t try,” he said with a shrug as she tried to kick at him, his hand deftly grabbing her foot and putting the shackle back around her ankle as she screamed, almost silently due to the hoarseness of her voice.

She punched and scratched as he wrenched her hand, sobbing as he almost broke her wrist, placing the shackle over her wrist and locking it in place. He let go of her and she sank to the floor, holding her wrist and crying, feeling pathetic, the wind knocked out of her. She bowed her head, feeling completely defeated.

She had failed to get free again. Why couldn’t she have been a shifter like they were? At least then she would have stood a damn chance of making it through the doorway. Mick just sighed and shook his head. Rosalie spat at him, angry and defiant and he backhanded her so hard that she saw stars dancing around her head for a moment. Her headache increased in intensity and she moaned, putting a hand to her head.

“Listen you little b***h” he snapped, no longer in the mood for pleasantries “Cut the f*****g attitude. I don’t like being spat at. It’s disgusting. Do it again and I’ll rip your damn tongue out” he threatened.

She could tell by the tone in his voice he wasn’t lying. She swallowed hard and nodded, bowing her head and staring dumbly at the floor. She felt his hand stroking her hair and fought the bile back in her throat.

“You have such pretty hair,” he said with admiration “Most women would have to use hair dye to achieve such a vibrant color like this. Yours is like a flame,” he said still stroking her hair, his tone quiet and reflective now.

She remained silent. He chuckled and stopped, moving back a few paces as she stared down at the floor. She just wanted him to leave. Wanted this nightmare to end.

“I’ll be back soon to give you some more food and if you’re good, who knows I might even be so nice as to give you some painkillers,” he said teasingly.

Please, just go, she pleaded in her mind, her control beginning to slip again. I can’t do this, I can’t look at you, smell you. All it does is bring back memories I want to bury. I don’t want to remember!

He sighed. “The guys and I had a wonderful time,” he said gloating and her head finally snapped up to look at him “so much so that we’ve decided to do it again. When you’re fully recovered. Shame you’re a human girl,” he said with real disappointment “a shifter female would have healed by the next night but oh well, never mind. The waiting just makes the anticipation that much more exciting.”

With that he began to make his way slowly upstairs, while Rosalie watched him go, her body collapsing onto the mattress, the food Mick had brought long forgotten about, as she gave into the depths of despair, wishing that somebody, anybody, would come along and save her. Why was it that villains existed in this world, but Prince Charming was nowhere to be found? Or a hero of any description for that matter?