The Weight of Blood and Name (3)

Daisy choked back a sob as she carefully smoothed the cool arnica ointment over the fresh, purpling welts that marred Elise's pale back. The bruises stood out in stark, brutal contrast against her skin, a silent testament to the Count's merciless discipline.

Her hands trembled with restrained fury. "His Lordship is such a brute," she muttered, her voice thick with a hatred she could never voice outside this room.

Elise sat perfectly still on the edge of the bed, her spine ramrod straight despite the obvious sting. When Daisy's fingers grazed a particularly dark welt, a slight, involuntary flinch betrayed Elise's ironclad control.

Daisy bit her lip, rubbing her damp eyes with the back of her wrist. "And he knows you just recovered, too..." she whispered, her voice cracking.

The silence between them was heavy, punctuated only by the soft, rhythmic strokes of Daisy's ministrations. Elise remained a statue of impassivity until the last bruise was tended to, barely reacting even when Daisy gently blew on her skin in a futile attempt to soothe the burn.

"It was my responsibility to keep him in line," Elise finally said, her voice devoid of emotion. She stood and stretched out her arms so Daisy could help her into a fresh, high-necked dress of dark grey wool, offering no complaint as the fabric whispered against her tender skin. "This punishment was the consequence of my failure."

"No, it wasn't!" Daisy protested, hurrying to pull the other sleeve over Elise's arm. "You were half-dead in your bed! Louis Whitefield took advantage of that to run wild like the spoiled—" She cut herself off, but the unspoken word hung in the air. "He should be the one bearing these marks, not you!"

Elise's hands stilled on the buttons of the dress. Then, without turning to look at Daisy, she said, her voice low and firm, "That is enough, Daisy. You will address the heir of Whitefield Manor with the respect his title demands. As a master."

Daisy huffed, her lip trembling as she fought a begrudging pout. "My only master is you, Lady Elise."

Elise sighed, a sound of exhausted acceptance. She resumed buttoning her dress in silence, but the quiet was fragile.

A sniffle. Then another.

Elise turned her head slightly, catching Daisy's reflection in the vanity mirror. The young maid stood stiffly, her hands balled into the fabric of her apron. Her freckled cheeks were flushed red, and frustration shimmered in her tear-filled eyes.

"It's not fair, my lady..." Daisy whispered, the words bursting forth. "Why must you always be the shield? You manage this entire house. You risk your life hunting monsters to keep Duskmoore safe. Why does he still... why do you still have to..." She couldn't finish, for her sense of injustice was too vast for words.

Elise hesitated. For a single, unguarded moment, something flickered in her pale blue eyes—a trace of something vulnerable, distant. But it was gone in an instant, locked away behind a wall of icy discipline. She lowered her gaze, her expression becoming unreadable.

Daisy wiped at her eyes quickly, sniffling as she stepped forward to adjust the dress's ruffled collar. Her fingers lingered for a heartbeat longer than necessary, as if by making Elise's appearance flawless, she could somehow fix the broken things inside.

"Lord Louis has no idea what you endure for him," she grumbled under her breath, unable to stay completely silent. "All he sees is his own pride. I can't believe he is the one who will—"

"Enough." Elise's voice was a whip-crack of authority, cold and final.

Daisy bit her bottom lip hard, swallowing the rest of her sentence. She stepped back, her protest quelled.

She studied her mistress. Every detail was flawless. Not a single pale gold hair out of place. Not a wrinkle in the severe gray dress. A poised, untouchable lady of noble bearing—one no one would ever suspect had just been beaten raw beneath her pristine clothes.

With a soft, weary exhale, Elise reached for the silver-handled brush on her vanity. She ran it through her pale gold curls once, twice. They'd grown just enough in the past few weeks to softly graze the curve of her neck.

She met her own gaze in the mirror. Her expression was cool, detached, assessing a tool rather than a person.

"Fetch the scissors," she said, her voice quiet but absolute.

Daisy hesitated, her hands pausing where they were straightening a perfume bottle. "Already, my lady? But it's only just reached a lovely length... it's not even in your way yet."

"Just enough to keep it short," Elise murmured, her eyes still fixed on her reflection. "It will become a distraction."

Her voice was flat. Her reflection, even more so.

Daisy's shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly, but she obeyed. She moved to the vanity and opened the middle drawer, the one that still held spare brushes and pins from a different life. The shears were tucked neatly in the back—cold, sharp, and unused for weeks.

As she reached for them, her fingers brushed against something else tucked carefully behind them.

A small, worn velvet box.

Her breath hitched. She knew what it was without looking. She nudged it forward just enough to lift the lid a fraction.

Inside lay forgotten treasure: delicate pearl-tipped pins, coils of satin ribbon in muted blues and silvers, a silver clasp etched with tiny forget-me-nots.

Hair accessories Elise had worn years ago—back when her hair was a cascade of gold that fell to her waist, a source of silent, private pride. When she would sometimes, on rare quiet evenings, allow Daisy to weave it into intricate braids.

Elise rarely had the occasion for the layered gowns and lace that noblewomen flaunted. Her world was one of fitted tunics, practical trousers, and dark, high-necked dresses. There was no room for silk and finery in a life built around the grip of a sword and the weight of a revolver.

But her hair... her hair had been her one concession to beauty. Her quiet rebellion. The single part of her she had fought to keep untouched by steel and utility.

Daisy stared for a long moment. The box was pristine, undisturbed, a museum piece to a ghost of the girl who used to inhabit this room.

She swallowed hard against the sudden tightness in her throat and closed the drawer with a soft click.

The scissors felt cold and heavy in her hand.

She turned and gently took a section of Elise's hair between her fingers. The curls were soft and springy. She paused. Waited.

Hoping, as she always did, for a change of heart.

None came. Only the expectant, patient silence of her mistress.

The first cut was always the loudest. The soft snip that severed the pale gold curl. It fell silently to the floor.

Daisy remembered the first night with painful clarity. The decisive, ruthless shearing. The long, beautiful strands pooling on the rug like shorn wheat. Elise had stood there, her head suddenly feeling too light, her neck exposed and vulnerable.

She had claimed it was a tactical necessity—long hair was a handle for a vampire, a weakness in combat. A practical decision.

But Daisy knew the truth. She remembered the girl who would sometimes, when she thought no one was looking, stroke the length of her hair with something akin to affection. The one who had cherished those little pins.

It had been her one indulgence. Her one vanity.

And even that had been sacrificed on the altar of her duty.

But to Daisy, she was still the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Short curls or long, clad in silk or steel, no one could ever come close.

And no matter how much of herself Elise shed—her hair, her softness, her dreams—Daisy would remain by her side.

Always.