When you were little, you first met Irene. She was a shy little girl, hiding behind her father’s cape. You never spoke; you are only the daughter of an officer, a high ranking official granted land only by merit, and not blood.

Your mother then told you that this little girl was a princess, and that when you’ll be old enough, you’ll serve under her. At your parents behest, you enjoyed the ball with her, and if your status would’ve allowed it, Irene might’ve wrote to you after- you found yourself quite a companion to her.

But then Irene grew up, usurped the throne from her older brother’s hand. Her family, all those that opposed her, found their life cut short. She became queen at the young age of 25.

And only a year later, you were summoned to her court, her handmaiden was executed after lazing and not fulfilling her duties, or so you’ve heard.

It has been a month of servitude now, you’ve met the very woman who grew from a shy girl to the tyrant of your homeland. Her gaze cuts into you, yet a sharp smile adorns her lips when she does so.

“My little dove.” She whispered, her fingers trail over your bare skin, etching thin agitated lines across it. You can’t help but notice the nearly obsessed look she regards you with— the sole object of her twisted affection is you.

She had you lounging in bed with her, red lips trailing your neck with soft kisses, yet you knew better than to melt into her embrace. The woman was nothing short of a venomous viper, a spider who spun a web just for you. “You seem distracted, love.” She murmured against your neck before continuing her kisses against it.