Stolen by the Rebel King -
Chapter 336: Broken Puppet I
Chapter 336: Broken Puppet I
[TW: mentions of physical and sexual abuse]
Drusilla lay on the cold, wet floor. Her stomach growled, haunted by a gnawing hunger that couldn’t be satiated. After all, she wasn’t given much that could help with that. She could barely remember when was the last time she had a proper meal. Maybe it was two days ago? Three? Or perhaps it had been before she had even arrived in this godforsaken place.
Day in and out, Jean Nott found new ways to mess with her. At first, he had his fun with her, marveling at her beauty and how wonderful a job Alistair had done in recreating Daphne’s face. The time spent together was sweet and pleasurable, so much so that Drusilla had even forgotten the promise he had made in punishing her for not being the real Daphne.
Then, his fantasies got darker and more violent.
He started with chains, cuffs, and blindfolds, preventing her from seeing anything while he had his way with her. All that she could take. However, she hadn’t expected the sharp pain of burning hot wax dripping onto her skin.
That was the least of her worries.
After the wax came the whips. Drusilla’s skin had split open with scars and wounds, fresh blood spilling from them after every round. Her body was defiled, used, and tossed as though she was no more than a common whore that could be hired for a cheap price.
Every time she thought that she was about to succumb to her injuries, Drusilla was pulled awake by a splash of ice-cold water. Jean Nott would jab a needle into her skin, filling her with a bright red liquid that she soon came to recognize as the one he had given to Alistair.
"You’re not allowed to die just yet," he would say.
His hand would always tenderly trace the curve of her face, stopping at her chin to force her to look into his eyes. Yet, he could never find what he wanted in those irises of hers. Even though Drusilla now looked like Daphne’s twin, she wasn’t her.
And the eyes were the windows to one’s soul. It was too easy to catch the differences.
While his magical supplement helped to heal Drusilla’s battered and bruised body, it did nothing to soothe the ache of her muscles after endless rounds of pleasure. She would, more often than not, be used until she was a pliant doll before being tossed to a side.
Three days without a bath — unless one counted the ice-cold water that was splashed on her whenever she passed out — meant that she smelled of a mixture of sweat and other bodily fluids. Every night that passed was another bit more she strayed away from portraying the perfect replica of Daphne.
Even though she wore Daphne’s face, she was still her, exhausted and near death, chucked on the stone floors of a random basement somewhere in Reaweth’s redlight district.
How cruelly ironic. This was where she had started. This was where she would most likely end.
So much for being a princess. Nothing good had resulted from it.
"Surprisingly sane despite the doses of cinnabar," Jean Nott said, murmuring to himself and not anyone in particular. He scribbled something down on his notepad, observing as Drusilla struggled to push herself up after the newest dose he had injected into her body. "Three days in and not displaying any signs of delusion. How fascinating."
"What signs am I supposed to display?" she weakly asked, her voice hoarse.
When her gaze met with Nott’s, she thought she saw a flicker of excitement dash through his irises. It remained there for a few seconds before it disappeared in a blink of an eye.
"I wonder if you realize, Princess Drusilla," he started to say, placing his quill back down. "You’re starting to look just like her."
"Her?" Drusilla echoed. She had a suspicion on who it was Jean Nott was talking about but she didn’t dare confirm that thought until he did.
"Your sister," he said, "Daphne. You now have the same tenacious look in your eyes, a fire that cannot be quelled no matter how much water is doused upon it. You’re starting to finally resemble your sister."
Drusilla chuckled coldly. Bit of help that would’ve been if she had that look three days ago. Now that she was already a tattered doll that had gone through too many bouts of torture, she didn’t need to look like Daphne any longer.
If anything, it was an insult. Nonetheless, Jean Nott made it sound like a compliment.
"Perhaps the cinnabar is still too refined," he said. Shutting the notebook he had, Jean Nott tucked his quill into his pocket before rising to his feet. He smiled down at Drusilla, who only glared hard at him. "Practice that look, Princess Drusilla," he said. "You look better this way."
With that said, he shut the heavy doors behind him, the lock clicking in place. Once Drusilla was sure Jean Nott had left, she let out a gut-wrenching scream. It echoed and bounced down the corridor’s walls.
Alas, no one came to her aid.
***
"Perhaps I should get the healers," Hazelle said worriedly, pacing back and forth. She reached out a hand unsurely, hesitating when Alistair tossed a sharp glare her way.
His eyes were bloodshot and his entire face was ghastly pale.
Ever since he had returned from his visit to Jean Nott’s hideout, Alistair had been trembling non-stop. His hand had grown from the previous tub of a fingerless palm, sure, but he had been quaking endlessly. Even in his sleep, Alistair would fidget about here and there, his unrest spreading to Hazelle, who had to lay beside him.
They had already moved back to the palace. However, they were confined to their old room. Not that they weren’t allowed to walk about but rather, Alistair preferred his silence.
"The healers?" Alistair scoffed, laughing. There was no mirth in his eyes; they were filled with nothing but mockery. "They’re all captives, locked in the infirmary by that wretched king so that they can tend to Daphne. Where are you going to find healers to have a look at me?!"
"There might be someone in town," Hazelle said. "Doctors aren’t that hard to come by."
She looked out of the window through the small crack between the drawn curtains. Alistair had grown a hatred for sunlight ever since he had taken yesterday’s dose. As such, she had no choice but to plummet their shared room in darkness to accommodate his needs, lest he act out his anger on her.
"Doctors... Those scammers are useless!" Alistair growled out.
He swiped across the small coffee table, sending the vase of flowers crashing onto the floor. Water spilled from the shattered vase and onto the carpets, petals raining from the surface.
Hazelle gasped in shock and took a step back. She had witnessed more than her fair share of Alistair’s breakdowns. Yet, just because she had experience with them didn’t mean that she was ever going to get used to them.
She needed to get out before she was her next victim. Alistair had handed his precious little sister so easily to a worldwide criminal just for some drugs. If there was ever a need, Hazelle was sure she would be next.
Marriage vows be damned― she wasn’t about to stay with a lunatic and count her days!
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