The Dragon Master's Pleasure Slave novel Chapter 1

Margot

“Margot! Finish up with that laundry! Your sister has to leave in two hours. What’s taking you so long?”

I wince at Stepmother’s grating voice as she screams down into the basement. My hands are raw from handwashing endless amounts of fancy lingerie and overpriced clothing. I had tried to wear gloves, but Stepmother decided against it.

“Margot, we spend a lot of money to put your sisters in the finest clothes money can buy to find them a husband. We cannot risk you ruining their attire with your slovenly gloves, so earn your keep.”

I wasn’t sure why she had decided against it. Until I saw a sly smile spread across her lips when she saw the cracks, the raw blisters, and the overall unbearable nature of my hands. She liked seeing me hurt, seeing me in pain.

If I were normal, my injuries would heal quickly. But thanks to the non-removable hexed gold cuff around my wrist, I can’t access any of my dragon’s powers.

I don’t even know if I have a dragon because my father had the witch put it before I reached the age of being able to connect with her. Many dragon shifters don’t get their full dragons anymore because our bloodline has become so diluted.

I’ll never know if my dragon blood is strong enough to afford me a dragon.

“Do I need to come down there?” Her voice is ice.

“No, ma’am. I will hurry.”

I gaze into the bubbly water my hands are plunged into and wonder why I had lost out on life’s luck lottery. Who is the girl gazing back at me? Round blue eyes that are dull and lifeless, high cheekbones, and a head of tangled thick blonde curls pulled away from my face beneath a rag.

I sigh and go back to concentrating on the wash.

My half-sisters change clothes three times a day—at least once for each meal—and every change includes a matching La Perla lingerie set. They could only wear one outfit at a time, but they insist I do the wash daily.

How many clothes did one person need anyway? I get by in my single blue dress with an apron. Even though I should change at least three times a day given how much food they throw at me.

“It’s too cold, puppy!” they’d say as they flung their plates at me.

I scrub faster and harder as soap nips at my wounds. I’ve tried to balm them, but they’re so parched my skin is almost brittle.

It takes about half an hour to wash and wring everything, but damp is unacceptable. I pick up the hair dryer to gently dry everything when pounding footsteps make their way down the stairs.

I know her steps. I know the sounds of each person in this house.

Before I can turn around, a fist grabs a chunk of my hair and yanks my head back. The force brings me to the floor, sprawled out. Stepmother glares down at me.

“She wants to have ALL of her options! Are you trying to upset me?”