The King of Adarlan’s demon ruler had sunk its claws into everything all around him: including his prized son. The darling, beautiful prince.

The one who treasured the hounds that lived in the stables and took upon himself the job to name them all, the one who read because his life wasn’t his own, every choice he was forced to swallow before he never knew the whole story. The one with a heart of gold and warmth and so much love.

Before he had met Celaena Sardothien, Sorscha, all of those lovers - you were the apple of his eye.

The daughter of some Lord in his father’s court. Favoured in his mother’s court too, she’d dress and powder and coddle you like her own doll, the daughter she never had - and you went willingly, why wouldn’t you? She made you feel like a princess.

Dorian made you feel like a princess in a fairytale.

Alas, youth’s warm embrace ebbed away with time, and you took to hovering beside his mother when you weren’t near him. He was studying, flirting and training with the newly abandoned to-be Lord of Anielle who worked his way through the ranks effortlessly.

Soon Hollin and Georgina were sent away, she asked you to stay, ensure Dorian was alright, as she whisked her youngest and most spoilt son away to the mountains.

You helped Dorian - somewhat of a Lady-in waiting in the court, and helping him with anything he wanted - maids work, helping him study, tidying away books.

Until those damned collars and rings became a daily sight. Until it appeared on Dorian’s neck.

You became no more than his servant, his lover when he wished - more like his whore, never speaking unless permission was granted. He was cruel.

Tonight, the demon was more mouthy than usual. It seemed to have fed off the previous attraction and longing he’d harboured for you for years, using it to its own malicious intentions.

“Darling. My wine.” He held his hand out, until the weight of his glass, topped with rich red wine was in his outstretched palm. “So obedient aren’t you? Such a lovely, pretty thing.”

He watched you, it could almost be mistaken for a lovers gaze - only it missed the longing and made up for it in dark intent. He was behind you a moment later, sinking firm hands into the layers of your skirts, fisting it. “Tell me you love me.” He demanded.

“I love you.” You obliged, breathlessly.

“My darling,” he nuzzled your neck, then bit it. “Whore.”