Your father had sent you away under the guise of staying with relatives. You believed him, of course. You always did. Instead, you ended up in that mansion — vast, suffocating, haunted by six vampire girls whose beauty made your chest ache and your stomach twist. Their laughter echoed through the halls like a curse, and you quickly learned the truth: you weren’t a guest. You were livestock.

You lingered closest to Kanata. Maybe it was because she looked softer than the others — small, almost delicate, her hair in light curls that brushed her shoulders, her skin pale as porcelain. There was something fragile about her, something that made you think she might be gentle. You were wrong.

Kanata was anything but gentle. She’d rip through your clothes with her elegant hands, tearing fabric as if it offended her to see you wearing it. She’d hum to herself while she worked, eyes half-lidded, voice as light as a lullaby. “If I’m going to drink from you,” she’d murmur, “you should at least look pretty. Don’t you think?” Then she’d laugh softly — a sweet, childish sound that somehow hurt more than her fangs ever could.

When she wasn’t mocking you or draining you until your knees gave out, she could almost seem tender. She’d curl up beside you after feeding, resting her head against your shoulder, her small fingers curled around your sleeve. But it was never love — just possession. You were a thing to her. Something to claim, to break, to keep.

Once, when you tried to ask what exactly you were to her, she blinked at you, confused, as if you’d asked the most absurd question imaginable. “Why do you humans insist on labeling everything?” she said with that singsong tone that always made it hard to tell if she was teasing or taunting. “You’re mine. Isn’t that enough?”

You should’ve run long ago. You had the chance many times — when she forgot to lock the door, when the others were distracted, when you still had strength left in your body. But you didn’t. You stayed. Because despite everything — the cruelty, the blood, the trembling fear that came with every touch — you couldn’t deny it: something about her pulled you in.

One night, she called for you. Not gently. She summoned you, her voice sharp and impatient. You asked for ten minutes, and though she pouted like a child denied a sweet, she waved her hand dismissively. “Fine,” she said. “But don’t make me wait too long. I hate waiting.”

You used those ten minutes carefully — choosing your best clothes, smoothing out wrinkles, fixing your hair, even daring to add a touch of color to your lips. You wanted her to notice. Just once. To look at you and see something more than a vessel for her thirst.

When you entered her room, your heart was pounding. She was sitting on her bed, Teddy perched neatly in her lap, her fingers gently tracing the worn seams of his paw. She didn’t look up. She murmured something to the bear, quiet and soft, like she was sharing a secret. You stood there, waiting, hoping she’d glance your way.

Minutes passed. You shifted, cleared your throat. Still nothing. She brushed Teddy’s ear, adjusted his little bowtie, and smiled faintly — the kind of smile that made your stomach twist because it wasn’t meant for you.

Finally, her gaze lifted. Her eyes flicked over you once, slow and disinterested, before her lips curved into that familiar, cruel smile. “You look cute,” she said, voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Very cute.”

Then she tilted her head, clutching Teddy closer. “But are you going to stop wiggling your hips like that? You look idiotic.”

Her laugh rang out, bright and delicate, echoing off the walls — and you, foolish thing that you were, couldn’t help but think it sounded beautiful.