[Flashback] How to Grow a Rose Black [Private]

[Amorette la Rose-Noire]

Early Winter of Year 501 A.V.

Life had been rough since she had left her house months ago, but there was no turning back now. She had burned it to the ground. Daisy had surely died in the flames and before that most other members of her family had already perished. Rose shook her head. It had been amusing, naturally, to watch all the pain and chaos death caused in her house but she had to admit to herself she was not enjoying it now. Living at home, even in the homestead working as a farm girl, was better than this. But would she really give up watching Heath, Lily, and Harold die at her hands for any reason? No. She knew that. There was nothing more exhilarating than watching life flow from a body.

Too bad Keating was not with her to heat up these cold nights. Rose had not seen him since that day last summer they had killed their father together. The death had shaken him differently than Rose. He did not find the same thrill in death that she did. He did not relish the control it gave him. She shook her head. Better not to think about Keating.

Traveling was dangerous. Traveling alone was more dangerous. And a woman traveling by her lonesome in the middle of winter was almost assuredly asking for trouble. Rose did not even know where she was going; she just needed to find some city. Any city. Syliras was the first on her mind but she really did not know how to get there. Not exactly.

Winter had taken its toll on Rose. Her frame had grown more slender, though it was not the slender of elegant beauty but the thinness of hunger: her cheeks had sunken and her breasts had shrunk from lack of food. The winter winds and cold had also hurt her. The skin on her face and around her mouth had grown red and raw from facing the piercing bite of the wind and her hands were chapped and constantly cold. Her hair was a mess and her dark eyes contrasted sharply with the paleness all around her. She was like a coal that had lost its flame.

The sun was beginning to set and she needed to find some shelter and refuge from the wind and cold. She needed to step off the road. Tucking her head down to ward off the wind from her exposed flesh, Rose wrapped her cloak around her more tightly as she stepped into the snow. Using her booted feet, Rose swept away as much snow as she could in a circle underneath the naked branches of a tree. The way she positioned herself, the tree’s trunk formed a barrier and welcomed reprieve from the wind.

Next she broke off some dead branches and formed a small, pathetic pile and set about trying to light it. It was hard work and the snow melted in the heat of the sparks, only to wet the branches further. Finally though, after nearly an hour’s work, a small fire began to smolder in branches. Barely large enough to even glow, it gave very little warmth. But it was the best she could do; she was lost, now, and had no idea where there was a family that would put her up or an inn she could sleep in. This was it for tonight.

No need praying to the gods, who would spare her pain or jump in for her life?

She leaned back against the bark of the tree, pulling her limbs in and resting her chin on her knee as she watched and occasionally prodded the fire to keep it going. Her mind was lost in thoughts. Images of blood, pain, and death flashed before her eyes. Watching her father’s death over and over again as if it were a favorite bedtime story.

Rose was so lost in her thoughts that she did not notice the sound of approaching horse hooves clomping on the hard, frozen earth. So transfixed was she on the fire that she did not even see the dark horse with the man dressed in shadows atop it grow near. It was not until he was nearly right before her, for she was merely feet from the road, before Rose even looked up.

The night was growing stronger so Rose had a hard time making on what it was before her, but she could tell it was a man atop a horse. The horse was dark and the man was dressed in black from head to foot. Lightly, as if he were made from air and not flesh, the man stepped from the horse and down to the ground, taking two small steps towards Rose. Each step crushing the snow slowly and loudly. Rose leapt up, not at all like air but more like a burst of flames, her hand instantly placed on the hilt of her stiletto blade and she glared at the newcomer with narrowed eyes.

The man only chuckled, “Now, now. What do we have here? A little girl? What are you doing all on your own, hmm? This is no place for someone like you to be by yourself!” He laughed. Something in his tone definitely gave away that he did not care at all about Rose’s personal safety and his laugh only confirmed in. But his words and his voice were so smooth and so gentle. It sounded like oil or like his tongue had been dipped in honey.

[Amorette la Rose-Noire]

The man stepped closer into the dim glow of the fire but it was close enough for Rose to get a good look at him. He was a tall man, taller than she anyways, standing at probably just over six feet in height and of a very slender build. He was swathed in a cloak woven of a fine, black fabric better than Rose had ever seen in her life. She guessed it to be an expensive weave of cotton but really it was silk. Rose had never seen silk in her life before and did not recognize it now.

The man’s face was constructed of delicate yet aristocratically pronounced bones overlaid with skin as smooth and blemish-less as porcelain. He was beautiful, thought Rose even though she could not see the color of his features yet. He could be fair or dark but she would not tell quite yet. Rose could see that he was smiling, the whites of his teeth glinting faintly. Slowly, and quietly as she could, she withdrew her blade, holding it behind her back, hoping that the night covered her movement.

If the man noticed, he made no reaction. He merely continued to smile and stepped closer to her, bridging the gap to just a few feet. On instinct, Rose moved her left foot back, ready to lean into it in retreat if she had to or use it to spring forward. She was like a cat ready to pounce, backed into a corner with no other move. Rose still said nothing.

“Ah!” The man exclaimed suddenly, whispering a bit of controlled and measured surprise, “What a surprise to find in the snow and cold! How lovely you are, well… I really should say, how lovely you could be! You have let the elements get to you, have you not little girl?” She smiled at her, the hook of his nose poking out between locks of iron-grey hair; he was finally close enough to make out his features. His honey-coated words dripped with sarcasm and condescension.

A fire lit inside of Rose; she did not like being spoken to like this. As if she were just some helpless girl at the mercy of fate. She was not that, or she did not like to think of herself as that. She barred her teeth and hunched forward. “I am not a pretty flower to be mocked,” she spat at him, rage and hate pulsating from her. This stranger came up to her and insulted her? He had the audacity to even speak to her? She would teach him a lesson.

Rose leapt at the man, making a slash with her arm wielding the stiletto blade, bringing it from behind her back into the air and down as she jumped. She did not care where she hit him she just wanted to marry her steel into his flesh. Anywhere. But that was her mistake. The man moved with just agility and grace that Rose gasped as she felt his delicately strong fingers close around her wrist. How long they were! How had he done that.

Without much apparent effort, he redirected her force so she spun like a dancer in a graceful pirouette, leaving the two of them facing the same direction, looking into the deep snow-covered lanscape. Rose was breathing deeply, she was shocked and her hand was still being held above her head by his. He squeezed, forcing her hand to open and the blade fell uselessly to her feet. She struggled to pull away or reach her blade but the man overpowered her. She remained suspended, inept.

“Now, now! Who taught you to behave like that? What an awful display of manners, but what could I expect from a girl who lives out in the snow with a face chapped like that.” He sneered. “I was nice to you and I will give you one more chance to compose yourself, little girl. I do not take kindly to being treated like that. Especially by little girls.” Rose was still fuming; she did not like losing.

Showing a lack of rationale and appreciation for the situation, Rose swung her free hand backwards as hard as she could, striking the man backhandedly across the face. It was a stupid move, careless. It caused to real damage and did not help to set her free. The strike had landed, sure, but it lacked the force and drive to be taken seriously. The man reacted just as swiftly, turning her around by her restrained arm as easily as if he was manipulating a puppet.

The man was smiling but she could not see it long before she felt a carefully and forcefully placed kick in her stomach. He had kneed her. She flew from his clutch and landed in the snow, dazed and gasping to regain her breath. Her vision was beginning to grow dark as she saw him loom over her, he leaned in as if to help her up or even kiss her, “Now precious, worry not. I know how to hurt you without ever leaving a mark.”

Another painful blow to the abdomen followed by an odd pinching sensation and then Rose blacked out.

[Amorette la Rose-Noire]

It was already light out when Rose woke; her body hurt terribly and she ached all over down to her very bones. She moved to stretch, but she couldn’t; her feet and hands were bound together with thin, though strong, chains. Her hands were bound behind her back, wrist on top of wrist and her feet were bound ankle to ankle. This was why her body had ached so for she had laid unconscious on top of her arms. She was no acrobat.

The events of last night—had it only been last night or had it been longer?—rushed back to her: the aristocratic man, the sound of horse hooves, the failed stabbing, and then his attack on her. She had lost. The man had overpowered her and with an ease that was disturbingly shameful. This was Rose after all, smotherer of infants and backstabbers of twins! How could he have done it with such ease?

She blinked again, trying to use her thick lashes to bat away the snow that had accumulated on her eyes so that she could better see. Positioned as she was, Rose had a hard time seeing but craning her neck as far as she could to either side she was able to determine that she had not moved and as far as she could tell she was alone. Petching Lhex! How was she going to get out of this? If only lying could break chains…

Then Rose began to hear footsteps crunching through the crystals of frozen snow; distant at first but growing stronger with every step. She could not see but she did not have to. Who else would it be? How could the sound of footsteps that had brought about her capture ever leave her mind? Wouldn’t she forever hear those sounds in her ears until she snuffed them out completely herself.

Rose could not see him approach until he was right on top of her, almost literately; his boots loomed before her face, stitched out of a skin she had never seen before, covered in tiny black scales: snakeskin. She could not twist her neck far enough to peer up into his face so she was forced to look at his boots like a groveling peasant. Rose was not a complete fool, however, and she knew to try and at least control her anger at this point.

“Good morning, my sweet little precious!” The man cooed to her in sickening murmuring coos that were the bastardization of how a mother spoke to her infant, “You have slept a long time! Are you comfortable? I would offer you something to eat but I am afraid that you would bite my hand rather than the food; you have not proven yourself very trustworthy, after all. Not to worry, though, sweetheart, you are no more dangerous now that a bee with no wings, mouth, or stinger.” He laughed his simpering laugh that burned Rose to the core.

He reached down to stroke her face, and Rose saw the flesh in the light for the first time. It was darker than hers and lightly haired with steely grey and muted brown hairs. She clenched her teeth so as not to bite the fingers as they fondled her chin; if Rose were to get out of this she knew that it was not through force. It would take much more finesse than that as the man had proved to her. He spoke to her again, “I am no liar, princess, so believe everything I tell you.” There was a bite of steely reality in this statement that unnerved Rose.

“But before we get into details about your situation, tell me something little flower: what is your name?” The force with which he held her chin tightened and lowered to her neck; a clear indicator that he was not messing around. Her very life depended on is whim and he wanted her to know that. And, as surprising as it may sound, Rose valued her life very much despite how carelessly she disposed others’.

Rose answered in complete monotone, offering no more information than was required, “Rose.” One word. That is all that he had asked, after all. She did not say Ash because how could she actually claim such a name after all she had done? She was no more an Ash than a feral dog.

He spoke again, “I do not like that name at all! Too common. Forget it, best you do, for you will never be called it again. As for me, you may simply refer to me as master. It will be good training for you because I intend to sell you as a slave.” He spoke simply. His tone did not indicate he was trying to scare her but it sounded like he had just told her the weather. It was a fact and nothing to cry over. “Now, can you promise to behave and I will let you out of your chains so you can clean yourself up and make yourself presentable. Or must you learn your lesson again?”

[Amorette la Rose-Noire]

The man who referred to himself as master could do very little more to make Rose hate him further; she was nearly bursting at the seams with it and was not doing a great job at keeping it to herself. Rose clenched her teeth hard as she fought back lashing out and biting him and dug her fingernails into her palm, causing deep red gouges that were near bleeding. Surprisingly, though, Rose cared very little about what he thought of her name but was more upset about what he call her. Master? She was no petty slave.

Rose was not stupid, however. This man was stronger than her, he had proved that to her. Quite clearly. And he was no Harold, her father, it seemed for her did not reek of alcohol. His mind seemed quite sharp and he seemed to know her actions before she did. He was the more learned in combat than she, though that was not saying very much. She was a little girl swinging around a skinny dagger. How terrifying she must be!

She needed to learn how to play the game before she could learn how to cheat. Play by the rules before you break them. So Rose swallowed her pride and nodded to the man. She was being honest, at least for the time being: she would not try to strike him. The man shook his head and clicked his tongue scornfully at her. “I tell you I am your master and you have the audacity to respond to me with a childish nod of your head? That will just not do, little love.” He struck her swiftly across the cheek with the back of his hand. It was not too hard but hard enough to sting.

Rose flinched from the strike and fought the tears that welled in her eyes on reflex; the way this man spoke to her was getting on her nerves: the commanding tones with the sweet pet names. Rose did not want to be a slave but it seemed she would have to play the part now; rising awkwardly and painfully to her knees, Rose kept her eyes downcast as she spoke, “I apologize… Master,” That word caused her obvious pain as she said it but she said it all the same, “I promise to behave like you ask, Master.”

The man studied her for a long time, his hand stroking his finely pointed chin as if she were a performer in a play and he was passing his judgment. Finally, he seemed to be pleased for he walked behind Rose and began to work at the chains knotted around her ankles. As they snaked from her skin red gouges emerged in their wake. Instinctively urged to rub them but her hands were still bound before her and she was on her knees. She felt his long-fingered hand grasping her should and then, with strength that continued to amaze her, he pulled her to her feet and turned her around.

A tent of khaki-colored, weather-beaten canvas had been erected behind them with the horse tethered to a nearby tree; the man had setup camp and if Rose were in the right state of mind, she could have even been flattered by the notion. But now was not the time. Holding her shoulder tightly, the man led Rose into the tent and sat her down on a straw mat that had been rolled out there. The tent was full of all the things one might expect in a tent: cooking utensils, a roll of sheets and pad that formed the bed, a collection of blades and arrows, a pack of clothes. It was simple but Rose was not here to make commentary on the interior decorating.

The man forced her down and shoved her roughly with his foot until she sat upon her knees, kneeling, and then he sat crossed legged before her. “Well you made it into the tent without any struggle, I believe that deserves a reward. What do you think, pretty pet?” Rose ignored the ‘pretty pet’ part and fixed her dark eyes on his chin so she would not feel the compulsion to leap at him and try to rip out his heart with her teeth. Oh Rhysol, how she wished to do it!

“Yes, master. I would appreciate that greatly.” The responding slap caught Rose completely by surprise and she let out a tiny gasp in shock; it had not hurt but it had been completely unexpected.

“Bad, darling, very bad! You never again will get the privilege of thinking you deserve anything! Do you understand me, my dream flower?” Once again the simpering tones met harshness in a cacophony of poorly matched rhetoric but Rose continued to fight the urge to sink her teeth deep into the pulsating artery on his neck. To win required more than a shock attack with this man. He was not Harold.

Rose hung her head low, in a pseudo-bow, “I apologize for my rudeness, Master.” She could not say any more for she feared what she would say. Rose was not known for controlling her impulses, after all, just ask Heath.

[Amorette la Rose-Noire]

“Well, regardless, I think your lessons in propriety must begin now if I am ever to make a pretty miza off you, darling doll. A slave that is prone to attacking her master fetches a very poor prices, I assure you, lovely. And no need averting your eyes, sunshine, I can see the hate boiling in them anyways, the heat of your hate is almost melting this snow. If looks could only kill, right darling? I am sure you already thought of that one though.” He laughed gaily at his joke though Rose did not. She hated to admit he was right, it would be wonderful if looks could kill because him and his petching horse would be gifts to Dira already.

The man, whose name Rose still did not know, motioned for her to move beside him, which she did reluctantly but quickly, not wanting to get smacked again. She settled herself just to his left, kneeling on the rough mats uncomfortably. “Precious, you were much better this time! Look at that kneeling, it’s as if living out in rural Syliras has ruined you completely. Now, I want you to serve on me a bit. You are too pretty to be a laboring slave so you will be a house slave I think, my dear. Which means you need to learn to serve!” He reached out and slapped Rose again, quite unexpectedly, causing Rose to gasp again. “Just needed to make sure you were paying attention, darling.”

Rose’s expression darkened into an explosion of angst –filled hatred that she could not conceal. Another slap across the face, “Absolutely none of that, missy. Now apologize to your Master.” If only Rose could just do something about this man that infuriated her so; it was getting hard for her to be patient and wait for a crack. It did not seem like he had any. Play the game, play the game… she kept repeating it in her head like a mantra. She hung her head low, looking down at the dirty straw mats, “I am sorry, Master.”

He reached out with his deceptively delicate looking hands and stroked her dark hair as if she were a cat; he did not few her as something to be feared but more of a house kitten. “How darling you are, my little kitten. I think it is time you were taught how to serve and I am quite hungry. Why don’t you serve me a meal, doesn’t that sound wonderful to you, lovely?” The man rose, though, stepping painfully on Rose’s toes as he got to his feet. He smiled as he watched her grimace but Rose did not give him the satisfaction of crying out.

The man who called himself master got up and began to clink around behind Rose where she could not see and she did not care to turn around. Her back was stiff as she listened to the sounds he made, her head cocked ever so slightly so that she could hear. She might not want to see what he did but she still wanted to be aware. She was treading the fine line between staying on her toes and maintaining her pride. Finally he returned and placed before himself a plate, a cup, and a flask. On the plate was a selection of dried fruit and the opened flash smelled like whiskey.

“I want you to feed me, but you do not get the privilege of using utensils, yet, baby doll. I would not want to find a fork in my neck, after all! Wouldn’t that be a tragedy,” He leaned over and stroked her cheek softly and she flinched, expecting a slap. Rose hated him for that, making her look like a fool for flinching. “I want you to feed me now, sweet apple, I am quite hungry.” He opened his mouth expectantly, pale eyes looking away and bored.

Rose must have taken too long because he quickly turned and slapped her much like a snake striking out at its food. Eerily like a snake. The stings were becoming so routine that the sting did not startle her but the wound on her pride was growing stronger. She had to fight this. She had to keep her resolve. She reached down and picked up a dried piece of fruit and popped it into his mouth in such a way so that her fingers did not have to trust him. For now, the man did not complain and Rose continued to feed him.

After a few more bites, the man motioned for her to stop, satiated. “Thanks little cloud, those were quite delicious. If you were not you I would have offered you some and I am sure you would have loved them. But, alas sweetie, you are you and you cannot have any!” He turned to her and pulled the corners of his lips down in a mock expression of sorrow. “But enough of this depressing conversation love, you will just adore serving other people once we get you worshipping Nikali. You will understand eventually. But now I am thirsty, pour me a drink.”

Nikali? Rose had never thought of worshipping her and any suggestion from this man was going to be ignored. But the name resonated her; there had to be a certain way she could use worshipping her to her own advantage. But she shook her head free of that and reached out awkwardly with her bound hands for the opened flask and poured a small amount into his glass. He peered at her expectantly, “What do you say, pet?” Rose blinked. She had no idea what to say. Naturally, he slapped her. “You say ‘Thank you, Master,’ because I let you have the honor of pouring my drink, deary. Don’t you understand that wonderful privilege? You get to bring me pleasure.”

[Amorette la Rose-Noire]

This time Rose could not fight the scowl fro darkening her features; it was so engrained in her to scorn the man's words. She hated the fact that she should ever have to say thank you to anyone. Anyone let alone this man who made her feel disgusted. He was filth. And he wanted her, Rose Ash, to thank him for pouring his drink? He had some nerve! The rage was building behind her dark eyes; rage that was so black it blackened her charcoal eyes eve more. She hated him, if there was anything in the world she knew, it was that.

His reaction was swift and unexpected as always but this time it was more than a slap. The man who referred to himself as master leapt upon her like a tiger upon its prey, his hands clenched around her neck like teeth. She had no time to react and could hardly breath from the strength of his grip, though one could hardly believe his fingers held so much force locked within them. His aristocratic face had hardened as well, the rage no longer contained and the artificial sweeter gone. He was angry and Rose only choked as consequence. It became clear them, a fact between them both, that he had no qualms about killing her. None at all.

Rose's only protests came in desperate clawings at the neck, a reaction that upset her for it was in vain. She was proving to herself she was not strong and not fierce. She was weak and at this man's mercy and there was nothing she hated more than that. Slowly, Rose began to lose the fight. Her scratchings became weaker and her head slumped back. She was loosing and she knew it. Rose had lost the fight. This man had once again proven he was the superior and that Rose was pathetic. But once again he let her live.

As suddenly as he had struck, the man withdrew his grip from her neck. Rose had been on the verge of passing out, holding conscious had proven a challenge. She drew in her breath sharply, gasping desperately as she lay helplessly on the mats. Rose could not help it; her body was urging her. Dark eyes rolled back into her head and she did not even try to attack him again. He was too strong. He had won. This was it for her because Keating was not here to protect her. Keating. This was all his fault.

Another slap interrupted her thoughts and brought her back to realty. She was not with Keating but laying upon this mat before this strange man. She blinked, tears were in her eyes. What did he want again? Why was she here? Her head was strangely foggy and she was having the hardest time focusing. Where was here? Who was this man? It wasn't Harold, was it? No. It was not Harold but then, what did he want? Rose was confused; the lack of air had caused unrest in her body.

Once again a boney hand struck the soft flesh of Rose's cheek. This time she blinked an looked up, seeing the aristocratic shape of the man's face; noticing the all to familiar curve of his sharply shaped nose. The man! Reality rushed back to her as oxygen flooded her blood. She knew where she was and she knew what she was supposed to be doing. Death left her as fast as life refreshed her. His words were like acid, though, as they filled her delicately shaped ears, "Darling, did you here what I said? I said I was thirsty. Pour me a drink." His words were harsher and less full of all the sweet pet names he called her. He meant business.

Hurriedly, Rose got to her knees, pulling herself off the ground. She shook her head as dazed as she was and tried to gain her barring. Rose had let it slip for a bit what she was trying to do; she was trying to wi the game but first she needed to learn the rules. And to learn the rules she needed to play the game. Rose picked up the flash and unscrewed the top before delicately pouring some of the contents into his cup before setting the flask down. Rose did not look at the man but kept her dark eyes downcast. She was full of hate and disgust but she did not want him to see it.

[Amorette la Rose-Noire]

Either he did not see it or this time he did not care for Rose did not get a correcting smack. He merely waited expectantly, staring at his cup as if Rose had never even bothered to fill it. His nose wrinkled with disgust though Rose could not understand why. The liquid had been the liquid he had told her to pour; surely it was not something foul. It did not smell that way nor look that way, even! So what was it? Rose was confused having thought she had done his bidding. But no, he loomed angrily in front of her and she found herself wanting to make him happy, if only to spare her cheek.

But she was a fool if she wished that for his hand was upon her pale flesh before she could even finish her thoughts. Surely it had grown rosely, flushed, and puffed after such treatment. He had never been particularly harsh, excluding the time he had tried to strangle her, but the constant strikes were beginning to wear her thin. And this time it seemed she was not going to be so lucky as to received just one in a row for he struck her again. And again. And again. Again and again and again. The blows were more quick and strong and agile this time. He was more about being mean and less about proving a point.

Tears were streaming down Rose's cheeks when he finally stopped some minutes later; she was unable to fight them for the blows had been so close to her eyes and the pain had been so sharp. A remote gasp like a lover's moan escaped her lips as quickly as the moon faded to black. She was in shock. She was loosing. Without thinking, Rose wrapped her thin, pale fingers around the tiny cup and held it tightly in her hand. She did not know what she was doing but she wished to save herself from the constant assault of blows from which she was helpless to defend herself from.

Rose was acting without thinking; working without considering the consequences. She wanted to throw the contents of the glass upon the man with such fine features but instead she raised it to is perfectly formed lips. Raised and tilted just perfectly so that that he could sip the amber liquid at his leisure. At his pleasure even. Full and perfect lips clasped tightly to the glass she held and drained part of the contents away from it. Realizing what she must do, Rose tilted the glass more so that he could more easily drink. Tears were still in her eyes and she did not completely understand what she was doing.

The glass was drained and with it seemed to have disappeared Rose's obedience. She dropped the glass in disgust just as the man who called himself master whispered, "Very good, darling, very good. You will prove to be a useful slave, yet, won;t you my little pet?" Rose could not help herself, he had gotten her to be is slave. She reached out a slapped him. As hard as she could muster. Her hand left a print upon his face; her hand etched perfectly in red upon his cheek. He reacted more switftly than she could realize. It seemed that he had his fingers locked around her neck in punishment before she had even slapped. Blackness began to slip around her gaze.

"Forget me not, Rose: I will train you yet."

[Amorette la Rose-Noire]

Rose came to in a flurry of long dark eyelashes beating away the long-dried tears of yesterday. Her cheek stung but she struggled to remember why until it struck her more painfully than the memory of the man smacking her dead. He had won. Again. Rose did not even know how long it had been since then. Since he had one. Since he had forced all consciousness from her bones. She blinked again and moved to wipe her dark hair from her eyes to only realize she could not do it as easily as she remembered for her wrists were bound, one a top the other. She was still in his possession; she was still his property.

Not sure if it had been just a day or just an hour that had passed, Rose blinked in a shower of confusion. It seemed that whether she liked it or not she was owned by him. She was his property. Reality rushed in faster than she wished to acknowledge and she realized that once again she found herself stirring to consciousness at the feet of this man. A man that she still did not know the name of. A man she still could only call master. Bile burned at the back of her throat but Rose did not know what to do with it; he had proven himself superior in all ways physical.

Well... not all things physical. No. There was still something else she could try.

Rose sat up and the man let her, watching her weak form struggling to rise from the pile he had made of it earlier, whether that had been a mere hour or a long day. She ached. Rose could feel it in her bones; the man known as master had not been very kind to her. The glass was gone as was the flask but the man was still there. He sat on the mat as he had the last time she had seen him and once again she fought the anger within her. It would do no good to attack him out right, that much had been shown.

But once her eyes were open and she was seated up right, he spoke to her in simpering, evil tones laced with honey, "You wake, my darling little puppet! How did you rest, did you get a sweet little nap, my darling?" His liquid green eyes poured ver her like light flowing from a candle; sparkling. He was beautiful in his aristocratic way, even Rose had to admit it, and his gaze could be considered almost tender. But Rose knew the lie too well, he was ready to strike her.

But he did not.

He just stared at her her; Rose bound by chains around her hands with only her feet free. Not that they would get her very far. Not far at all. She turned her body away from the man, so that her back was pointed towards her chest. She said not a word. She was much younger than he and they both knew it. She had been exactly what he had been looking for: spirited but submissive when it counted. He reached out and stroked her cheek gently from a change, "You are a beautiful little butterfly, flower blossom, and I could not hope for something better. A daisy might fetch a fair price at the market but a flower as exquisite as you, precious, brings a remarkable price."

Suddenly Rose knew what to do, what this man was looking for in her. He wanted her, in a way, and was using that desire to sell her. Cocking her chin over her shoulder, Rose slipped her dress partially off one side, exposing the flesh on the right side of her body. She peered at him with charcoal eyes, her breasts partially exposed. The man who made her call him master could only stare. His fair eyes concentrated on the nipple.

Finally she understood the game.

[Amorette la Rose-Noire]

Why she had not seen it earlier, Rose could only punish herself over later! It seemed that ll men were the same and that this man was no different than her brother Keating: they both longed for her flesh. Ah men, they seemed to be such simple creatures when you boiled them down, all wanting the same thing. Rose sat with her one breast exposed as she thought, both of them seemed to be locked in a stalemate. Though each for different reasons: Rose because she thought about what to do next and the man because he was transfixed by the beauty of Rose and what it inspired in him.

Rose took the next move, and flung herself back so that she rested upon her elbows, her knees spread slightly. It was an awkward and uncomfortable position to be in for any amount of time and she could already feel the discomfort in her arms. But she had made her decision. Rose looked up at the man, all the longing she could muster for him sparkling in her eyes. She bit her lip as if she were fighting to cry out from the pain of her position. Thrown back as she was, more of her chest and belly were exposed as the loosened fabric folded to reveal more of her pale flesh. All the better.

Green eyes as liquid and as quick as water darted this way and that across her body, seeming to melt upon the heat of her exposed flesh. Rose could not do much more, bound as she was and with her arms behind her. But her legs were free and she tried to use this to her advantage, swinging out her legs so that each ankle rested on the outside of each corresponding knee of the man who called himself master. Her center pointed towards him, hopelessly exposed.

Years later (and even months later), Rose would look back at this pathetic attempt with scorn at her ways. She was so amateur. So childlike! So pathetic, even. But, even she had to admit, it must have helped her that night because the man with green eyes could not look away from her. His penetrating gaze started first at her feet and slowly wound their way up, dancing from blemish to blemish, until they were locked between her legs. He stared there for a long time as if considering what to do.

Not knowing what to do exactly, though improvising as if this were Keating, a man she knew, Rose moaned. The sound was not completely a moan, it had a sigh to it. She tried to blend a few emotions in: fear, desire, and childish innocence. Rose was not sure which she acheived, but pain was the cloest to reality and reflected most sincerely in her voice. She moaned again and tilted her head back, waiting.

And waiting.