II · Zahara

Sometimes his hateful glare makes me want to die, to run away, to yell at him to tell me why he hate me so much, why he despises me so much. Why? What did I do that was so bad? I don't want his position, I don't want his family's money, I have never spent a penny of the allowance they give me since I got here, I dont want to steal anything that's rightfully his, definitely not his parents.

I'm harmless, why does he act as if I wasn't? Why does he look at me with the disgust one shows to those they loath? I'm not his enemy, all I wanted... fuck, all I wanted was to be acknowledged by him, to take that disgusted look off his eyes, to make him look at me as if I was worthy of his attention, as if I wasn't so inferior to him, as if... as if I was interesting.

I know I shouldn't think like this, that I shouldn't feel the need of his approval, that I shouldn't crave for his attention like this, but... but something primal inside of me controls me every time he's near, every time someone talks about him. I have no control over this, it's an intense emotion that takes over me, leaving me helpless. I can't help.

Even when I'm asleep, Alec is in my mind.

My nightmares revolve around him hating me, disgusted by me, wanting me to disappear, calling me unworthy, calling me no one, nothing, nobody. His glares, his hatred. All of that sinking into my bones, making me hate myself, making me want to change, to do whatever it takes to change his mind.

In my dreams, he looks at me with tenderness, he smiles the way I've only seen him do once and for mother, he makes me company and considers me interesting, he thinks I'm worthy of his time, he talks to me like he wants to discover more.

And in my hot dreams... that started to manifest ever since I've first saw him shirtless and training when I was 18, he desires me, he craves for me, he claims me as his, he thinks I'm more than worthy, worthy of his soul and heart, worthy of his cock.

He thrusts into me and makes me see stars, he calls me by my name with a deep raspy voice thick with desire, he devours my naked body with his eyes, and he takes me even with staff in the room becsuse all he thinks about is me. When he can't do that, he grabs me possessively and brings me to a private side, then he press me on a wall, gets on his knees, rises the skirt of my dress, pushes my panties aside and ravages my pussy.

In those dreams, he moves me around like his own doll, positioning me the way he craves to bring his fantasies to life. He fucks me raw, even when I'm ovulating, and he breeds me like a primal male does his female. Alec only stops fucking me when I'm blacking out, my flat belly swelled with the amount of seed he poured into my womb.

He steals my virginity for himself, over and over again, marking my entire body in a way impossible to hide, so everyone would know I am his, that I belong to him, that I'm bred, well fucked, and his. In them, he claims his undying love for me, then he fucked me aggressively and unsafe again, always pouring it all in me. He never let me drink a protective tea to avoid pregnancy, because a real men is always ready to bred his woman and take full responsibility for it.

Dreams that became painfully constant in the past years, making me wake up in the middle of the night, soaked in sweat and with my pussy soaked, craving so desperately for his cock that it hurts, huffing and blushing, my skin hot and burning. Then I have to take a new bath and I'm only able to sleep after touching myself.

I hate this feeling.

It's wrong.

It's forbidden.

I know we're not siblings, but to our parents we are in a certain way, which makes it all wrong. Even if I know he's far from desiring someone so younger than him like me, even if I've been an adult for some years now, he wouldn't bait an eyelash at me. And when I remember how sick of me he is, it makes me want to cry, to actually cry, and I'm not a crier.

It hurts.

I'll never be enough to get his attention.

I know that, fuck, I know it. I'm nothing and he's a Prince, he's the great Grand Duke of the north, blood related to the Royal family, he's perfect, everything about him is perfect. While I... am the opposite of that, I'm nobody, I have no idea who I really am, no memories, nothing, I could be a peasant despite the clothes I was in, which makes it wronger. And that only make the feeling of being unworthy of even his eyes on me grow, sickeningly so.

I don't know what I really feel for Alec, but I know I shouldn't, I know it's wrong, as much as I know that I have no control over it. It's maddeningly strong, I can't fight it. I don't know if I want to fight it either.

"Princess Zahara," my maid, Thalassa Theron, who's old enough to be my aunt and older than my mother but not necessarily a grandmother, called for me.

I blinked, snapping out of my thoughts, that sickening feeling taking over my chest as I found myself staring at my balcony, knowing that if I dared to walk to it and look down, I would find Alec half-naked training down there, the sound of fighting giving him up. I'm not worthy of watching him either, even if sometimes I can't find the craving to. It feels like I'm stalking him, it makes me miserable.

"Yes?" I asked softly, eyes down on the piano, realizing I was daydreaming in the middle of my musical class.

"Mrs. Depp has been calling you, but you were lost in your thoughts," Thalassa said.

I nodded almost not moving my head, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Depp, could you repeat your words once more?" I rose my eyes to meet the old woman I'm so familiar with now, she definitely thinks I'm miserable because of my doubts and lack of memories, I don't mind it, not anymore.

Pale softly wrinkled skin, short straight grey hair, warm honey doe eyes, she's also taller than me, but she's kind-hearted, an artist, "You were about to show me the number you composed, Zahra," she also calls me by my nickname, she is intimate enough to do it.

Facing the piano again, I closed my eyes and began to play one of the many number I composed after the conflicting feelings I have for Alec, this one being sadder than most of the 20 I composed before. Tears rolling down my closed eyes, the pain in my heart growing tangible, liquid, overflowing out of the windows of my soul.

I can't write about it or someone could find it. I can't talk about it either. All I can is pour it all down on one of the only things I'm good at, the piano, even if that makes me even more miserable, like most musicians.

He is all I want.

He is all I can't have.

It hurts, but I accept it, for I am not worthy.

Knowing that doesn't lessen up the pain tho.