Author's note: Well, after writing a the other Marishka/Velkan ficlets, NightSlash poked me for a ficlet where Velkan turned the tables on Marishka. And then we decided to write an AU story with them. So, this little ficlet is actually sort of a prologue to that fic, a multi-chapter story called Salvation. So this story is a bit AU and ties into the other ficlets, but those aren't necessarily AU. Confusing, no? Ok, so you're tired of me babbling. Here's the story. It is DARK and has SEXUAL CONTENT. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. Ok? They belong to Stephen Sommers, Universal Studios, etc. I mean no copyright infringement or harm of any sort. Please, do not sue little old me. I'm not that well off. I still live with my parents. I'm just a poor fanfic author. Savvy?



Marishka smiled cruelly at the helpless creature before her. Velkan, a monster himself now, in wolfen form and chained to the wall. Her master had given him to her for the evening, since Igor had tasks to completed, and Dracula wished to spend time with Verona, while Aleera went out on her hunt.

The brown werewolf growled and thrashed against his bonds, snarling at her with bared fangs. Its eyes, though bestial in appearance, held a human rage and despair in them that almost made Marishka ache with the desire to drain any hope left.

Such was her nature. She had never understood fully why she was quite so cruel. Not even her master liked to torment and manipulate as much as she did, nor did her achieve as much joy from his victims' cries of mercy. Perhaps it was because of her human years, though she could not remember any of them. Nor did she want to.

She did not need to understand her motives and reasons, as long as she had fun and got what she wanted and pleased her master.

Walking up towards the shackled werewolf, she grinned. "Poor, poor Velkan. The last male Valerious, Prince Velkan Valerious is now nothing except a monster that his own sister hunts, now just the same as those he would see dead and burned to ash," she said with mock pity.

"And now, you have nowhere to go. You are trapped. With me," she added with a whisper as she came even closer, her voice an erotic suggestion, her eyes a beckoning and her body a promise of pain and pleasure and a fall from grace.

Velkan growled low in his throat, but stilled, watching her with human hatred, not animal fear. He let her near him, panting, baring his fangs again, ever so slightly. But he made no move to snap or bite and struggle to free himself from his bonds.

Marishka watched him warily, staring into his eyes, trying to read him. He was being rather calm, too calm almost. She herself had never fully broken him, not completely. Not even that first time. She had destroyed a part of him, twisted him, corrupted him, but never truly broken him.

And now, he was acting as though he had given up, as though he had been broken.

But perhaps the lycanthropy running through his veins had done it. Perhaps the werewolf had indeed succeeded where Marishka had failed.

It was her own fault she had failed. Now, as she stared at this beast that hid the gypsy prince, she realized that. She had taken almost a liking, she had enjoyed her nights with him. There was no love, no caring, nothing. But there was pleasure, and there was struggle and fight, and ultimately mutual giving in.

He had tainted her as well. Perhaps as much as she had tainted him. Perhaps more so.

"Come now, Velkan," she said after a moment, despising the silence and his broken attitude. "Surely these chains, this curse enslaving you to my master cannot have broken your spirit."

The wolf's snarl became silent, but his fangs were still bared in what Marishka would describe as the perfect wolfish grin. Before she could even react, the sound of chains snapping and the feel of claws in her arms was all she knew, her eyes shut in pain and her mouth open in a shriek.

But the wolf, the prince was quicker than lightning and his fur covered body muffled her shriek of surprise and pain, his claws digging through her flesh as he moved them down and then off her arms. There was a growl and then five claws found her side even as her arms healed.

Marishka shoved at the beast, but her strength was no longer greater. He was male and he was wolf, and she, great and old and powerful as she was, was still a female. Her shoves pushed him off of her, but his claws dug in further and dragged as he was knocked back somewhat.

Marishka's panicked mind tried to contact her master, but he was caught up in his eldest and her concentration was swiftly taken from the mental call for help as the beast roared and knocked her against the wall.

He was upon her even as she moaned in pain when she collided with the stone wall, his claws on her shoulders, stomach, arms face, and she, for all her years and powers and cries and pleas and demands and shouts, could do nothing but heal some wounds while he made new ones.

The smell of blood in fear filled her rooms, though it was not the aphrodisiac she usually loved, no, if she could even concentrate on the scents tainting the air, she most likely would have found it a stench as it was her own.

Even so, as the beast pressed itself against her, growling low and finally stopping in its clawing of her flesh, she felt the power in its limbs and felt the lust in its loins, and she felt desire as much as fear. She despised herself for it, for even wanting the dog, for even wanting the prince, but she did.

She had grown to feel desire for him.

The wolf and the prince had dominated her, forcing her into submission, and she was drawn to it. It had happened long before this attack.

He had dominated her the way Dracula had hundreds of years ago, but now her master had a young bride that often wished for her master all to herself, and he always had Verona, his eldest and favorite that understood Aleera's desire better than Marishka ever could. And now she had a new male, a new lover, and he had taken her attention.

She would obey her master. He was her master, and she belonged to him. Her will was his to control. But her heart, which he had cruelly left intact, though corrupted, was now the property of this mortal turned beast.

And she despised both men for it.

The wolf backed away from her, the prince's eyes staring at her with something she would almost call pity as she tried to walk past him to the bed.

She hissed at him with contempt, the pity like absinthe on her unhealed wounds.

With a snarl, the wolf had her pressed against the wall again, and her clothes were ripped off unceremoniously. She struggled until claws dug into her wrists and pinned them above her head, the pressure so fierce it was as if he was trying to make her leave an impression in the stone.

Marishka gave up in defeat, unable to fight, unable to think, unable to do anything except let out a cry as she felt the male enter her, fur covered flesh pressed against her body intimately, the wolf thrusting into her without warning, and she felt pain rip through her womb.

She cried out again and again, almost brought to tears, not sure if she wanted to cry for the pain more, of for the pleasure she felt building up even as she burned with pain at the large intrusion of the beast. She felt its chest heave with pants, felt the vibration of its growl, heard it in her ear as it nipped sharply at her shoulders.

And then, finally, the wolf came, a howl bursting from its muzzle, its seed filling her useless womb, and its size increased briefly, making her scream as she felt herself join the wolf in the rapture, the pain fierce and the pleasure hot.

Velkan pulled away, leaving her body. She whimpered as she sank to the floor, blood trickling down her legs along with the wet proof of desire and fulfillment. The pain would heal. The agony would never leave her. The cold she felt without his warmth surrounding her was frightening, and the emptiness in her loins nearly drove her mad.

"Kill me," she whispered pitifully, lying in a crumpled heap on the ground, her clothes lying practically shredded around her.

"No," came the familiar voice of the mortal she had tried to break. She hadn't even registered the sounds of his change. She was too caught up in the awful sensations plaguing her as her trembling died down.

Velkan's arms were holding her suddenly, carrying her, placing her on the bed and covering her in an almost gentle, apologetic manner, while Marishka curled up as if ashamed and afraid.

Marishka. Cruelest of Dracula's Brides. Broken by Prince Velkan Valerious after he had become a werewolf and a servant of her master, just like she.

It should have made her seethe with cold rage, burn with an icy fire, but instead, it made her shoulders heave with silent sobs, the feel of soft, warm skin, gentle breathing making her burn even worse than the wolf made her ache.

"Tell me, Marishka, how do you feel?" the prince asked without any trace of mockery or contempt or triumph.

Too weak to even feel more shame, she answered plainly. "Burned. Broken. Filthy. Unworthy. Tormented. Tainted."

A soft kiss was placed on her temple, and she felt Velkan get in behind her, wrapping his arms around her almost comfortingly. "At least I won't leave you this way," he whispered softly. " I am not as cruel as you were."

Marishka almost asked Velkan what he meant by the "were", but she let it slide. "My master will kill you for this," she said softly.

"He will kill me no matter what," Velkan replied. He brushed some of her hair back, displaying intimate and simple acts of affection shared with lovers.

She let him, lying almost limp. She felt something inside her stir with those simple acts. Some sort of familiarity she could not place. Perhaps it was instinctive of her, knowing that this was right and good. She had never had right and good.

She wasn't supposed to want either.

Velkan made her want both.

And they would both most likely die because of it.