Facets of Feyrie Box Set, page 8
part #1 of Facets of Feyrie Series
“What is it that you think you can teach me?” So arrogant that I reconsider throwing the bucket again.
Instead, I give him my most innocent smile and say, “How to get that stick out of your ass.”
When the noise coming out of his throat registers, my heart nearly stops. He chuckled! Yes, chuckled. Frantically, I grab at the bucket that my numb fingers released in shock.
“Maybe you will,” he replies, as the bucket hits the floor with a wet hollow thunk.
Chapter Seven
There are moments in life when you meet someone, hate them, and you immediately want to rip body parts off them. Not that I don’t experience this feeling often, just not with this level of desire to do it. My stomach is knotted with instant dislike on sight, and with every second of pain she inflicts on me, hatred is quickly filling in the gaps. Every gut instinct I have is telling me that if given a chance, this woman—Darvena, will be the death of me.
Darvena is a sadist. I can damn near smell it on her, and I want to rip her head off so bad that I’m debating on which gods will take my soul as payment to allow this to happen if there are any left that listens.
Long, snow-white hair brushes against her face as she moves. Thick, lustrous and perfectly curled to fall around her shoulders in a hair work of art. The coiffed shit smells like some exotic fruit too. And her face, while I loathe admitting it, is stunning. I can completely understand why she was chosen for her position as the magistrate’s head consort. Delicate, plush lips shaded a light, natural-looking pink are spread in a smile that hides an adder behind it. A small pert nose, with a delicate little upturn to it. Golden eyes that shine with an inner light as bright as a brand new coin. She’s shorter than I am and she moves with elegance to her small frame that I wouldn’t be able to duplicate if my life depended on it.
The fact that I can’t find fault in her beauty despite her inner evil bitch makes me want to throw up on her expensive, silk shoes.
She gets this gleam of glee in her eyes and smells of arousal. Another sadist to go along with the theme they have going on in this place, and now that I’ve spent some time in Darvena’s ‘care’ I know how deep it goes. To her rotten fucking core.
Per her request, I’m shackled spread eagle to the wall in the rather cliche torture room. Arick, the magistrate, and his twit posse are taking turns zapping me with a cattle prod. Their request, of course. She’s lapping it up like a starved vampire getting his first meal.
‘Just the tip,’ they call this game. They’re standing around me, laughing at their witticisms and ‘creativity.’ For once, I’m glad this game is one of pain, I prefer it to the alternative. I thought of something else entirely when they first suggested it because the last time I heard that particular phrase a dick was getting shoved in my face. Compared to that, this is a picnic. Sexual torture leaves marks beatings do not. Ones that are hard to heal, if they ever do.
Predators of that kind don’t like victims that bite hard either. They punish you worse for it, too.
‘You prefer this to sex?’ Phobe questions in my head.
There goes that telepathy shit again. I also suspect he's a mind reader too. They’re in the same group of abilities, so it’s not a far reach. It would explain the feeling I have of being watched even when no one’s around. Having a person poking around in my head is, essentially, them watching me. I feel a bit dumb for not putting it together sooner.
‘I prefer this to rape, not sex. There’s a difference,’ I snap out, in my head.
‘What?’ he questions.
For a moment, I’m confused about his question; why would he ask such a thing? Then it hits me. He doesn’t understand the difference.
‘Well, rape is bad—' I start to explain and then pause. I’m not the person to give him the right answer. Considering that my experimentation with consensual sex went wrong, on all levels.
The closest thing I’ve had to a relationship is this weird shit between him and me—I grab at the thought before completing it. That part, I totally don’t want him to know. Especially how much time I’ve spent thinking on it.
Pain yanks me out of my thoughts. A string of curse words slips out of my mouth as the electricity burns the skin above my navel. The pain slices through my guts and would have me on the ground if I weren’t hanging here. Gritting my teeth, I squeeze the chains until my knuckles ache. I will not scream. They’ll not get the satisfaction of that from me.
It'll heal, it always heals.
“She is rather dull, Darvena,” Arick says, turning away from me, bored.
Exhaling in relief, I let myself relax a little. When he becomes bored, he usually moves onto something—or someone—else or sends us back to our cell. The need for the latter is building as the endorphins are losing effect. Rapidly.
“Oh, Arick, my love. Come here and show our guests your collection. I’m sure they would love to hear the stories of your conquests.” I watch through sweaty hair as Darvena steers the magistrate over to a glass top case against the wall. Darvena must have an agenda with these particular guests. People like her enjoy hurting people too much to pass on a chance to do it.
“Remove them.” At Arick’s order, I relax a little bit more.
Stumbling, I manage to grab the wall and keep myself upright as the guards unshackle me, and I fight for my balance. If I can manage to avoid catching their attention, I can get out of here without any further crap happening. Before the chance to escape the room is lost, I stagger towards the door without a word. Burns hurt. They hurt in a way cutting or beating do not. I don’t want anymore because I’m genuinely not sure how much of it I can take.
At least, they didn’t use Magiks this time.
‘Are you going to answer me?’ Phobe asks, his voice a whisper in my brain.
I barely manage to keep myself from looking at him. We’re already halfway to our cell when I realize that I’ve still said nothing.
‘Sex is supposed to be consensual, Phobe, and above all, enjoyable.’ There, that sounds wise and shit, and about as good as it's going to get; I'm at my limit for explanations.
‘Without pain?’
Sigh, he’s Mr. Talkative today. This might be one of our longest conversations ever, and the only reason I force myself to continue talking is that he sounds genuinely curious.
‘That depends on the people having it. Pain can be a pleasure.’ That is part of my problem. The two are twisted in some ways with me. I’m not about to tell him that, though. My tired brain catches up to me, damnit—he’s a fucking mind reader.
‘Haven’t you had sex before?’ I ask. If he says no, I’ll have a fucking heart attack right here.
‘Yes.’ Good, no heart attack for me.
‘Didn’t you enjoy it?’
‘It didn’t give me pleasure. Does it give you pleasure?’ he fires back, sounding doubtful of my answer. This is such a weird conversation to be having with him. Odd timing too, but it's been distracting if nothing else. Maybe that’s his goal with it.
As I walk into the cell, I gratefully slide to the floor on my blanket. Turning, I lower myself to my side and exhale in relief. No way am I sleeping on any other part of my body today. Especially my stomach.
‘No,’ I answer, feeling his impatience.
‘Why not?’
Lying will not work with him, so I settle on the truth. ‘They were pissed off because they were more fragile than me.’
‘You broke them?’
‘Yeah, you could say that.’ In a literal sense, I broke one’s arm and the other one’s ribs during my fumbling attempts at sex. Not entirely on purpose but I wasn’t gentle in any way either, they did say they liked it rough. The problem was, I was too rough, and we didn’t make it to the actual sex part. Fed up with the attempt, I stopped and sent them away.
Initially, they left but then came back after they’d healed and tried to finish what was started—with me being restrained or unconscious as their goal—so not only did I break them a little, neither were breathing the next day either. No means no, and neither of them chose to pay heed. So, I made them, with prejudice.
‘I have broken many as well.’ He says with a casualness that’s reserved for talking about mundane things, like the weather—not killing your sexual partners. My brain is already moving on. I wonder how many there were. Before I can go too far down into that fucked up hole, sleep pulls at me—making my eyes heavy. I yawn once, tuck my hands under my cheek and let it have me, as my eyes close the final time, the trip back to our cells replays in my mind. His cool hands were guiding me to the cell and to rest on the blanket the entire time.
Chapter Eight
Iza has now discovered that the worst of her captors is not Arick; it is the whore Darvena. Tonight I am silently watching while the guards alternate between fondling her and beating her. Darvena is threatening to then allow her guests, whose faces I memorize, a turn. Watching Iza climb to her feet over and over again, no matter how many times they knock her down, is rather remarkable. She is much stronger than I gave her credit for. I realize that error in my judgment now.
Her flashing eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I am held prisoner by the intensity in them. Feeling that gaze to my bones. Iza winks, breaking the seriousness of that look. I swallow, barely hiding the snort that almost escaped me. Does she ever take anything seriously?
Although, in moments like this, I am not sure I truly want her to. This strange humor of hers awakens a new part of me.
Jameson clears his throat from where he stands beside the magistrate’s chair. I refuse to call it a throne because he is no king, but that is not what pulls my attention to him. The idiotic thoughts in the imp’s mind are what caught my undivided attention.
That fucking imbecile.
Jameson is in trouble with Darvena, and she wants him dead for his supposed infraction against her. Jameson was tasked with making a potion to cure Blood Lock sickness, even temporarily. Instead, Jameson's creation makes their sickness worse, and in several cases, kills them. However, Arick disagrees and thinks Jameson still has some use. That alone is the tenuous reason he is still alive. Ultimately, Darvena will get her wish, especially since she needs someone to blame and Jameson knows it.
To save his ass, he is about to do something that I may kill him for.
“Jameson, you have seen the interactions between this rabble, what say you of their closeness?” Darvena asks, her eyes cutting to me.
“I can’t say with any honesty that there’s much—but I feel he has some regard for her. I mean he hasn’t eaten her yet,” Jameson answers her nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing several times as the shaky words leave his traitorous mouth.
What a bloody coward. Iza befriended him, showed him kindness when no one else would. If he survives—which it is not looking like he will, he is going on my menu.
Wisps of shadow subtly creep out of me as I focus my attention on Darvena. Watching her watch Iza, I now know why she hates her with such single-mindedness. Me. The woman’s obsession is nothing new. I do not understand it, nor I do not want it, but she has it nonetheless. She has convinced herself that Iza is impeding my desire for her. There is not a force in existence that can ever make me want that bloody bitch.
I desire…
My eyes fall again on Iza. She is smirking at Rickher who holds her up by his fist in her hair. His hold is so tight against her scalp that I can see the roots of it straining to remain attached. Blood drips steadily off her chin, before forming long red streaks down her naked body. My stomach tightens. I want to kill him. I want to kill them all, and for once, it has nothing to do with me.
I want to kill them all for… her.
Chapter Nine
The Schoth came for us again. This is the fourth time in a row, unusual for the pattern we’ve fallen into. That makes me suspicious that things are possibly building up to something I don’t want to be a part of. The last few times, the encounters consisted of petty insults and ridiculous displays of Arick’s ownership of Phobe—and now me. Tonight though has a different vibe to it. There's a hum of dread laced expectation to the air, so thick that it makes a chill run up my spine. Whatever they’re planning to do is not good for me. Not at all. Despite what I pretend to do, I’m paying very close attention to their every move.
“What is that on her back?” Darvena asks, from behind me. She’s up to something—the smug smile flirting with her mouth testifies to that. One of the guards steps forward. Another bad omen, he’s usually one of the silent ones.
A game is afoot.
“It looks like a tattoo,” he answers. I choke back a snort. Way to go Captain Obvious! He clears his throat and continues, “It’s of no Magikal consequence, my lady. We had a mage go over her when we brought her in, and he found nothing.” As if their mages could interpret anything of the dark. I was born with it, and I don’t even know the consequences of it. They can have a billion mages go over it, and it will tell them nothing. Paul tried all sorts of spells and tricks to discover its meaning. None of them brought answers to the table.
“I’ve been told you have a soft spot for one another. Is this true?” Darvena asks, daintily stepping around my blood pooled on the floor to come and stand in front of me.
“Answer!” Captain Obvious demands, coming to Darvena’s side.
Keeping my face carefully blank, I remain silent. There’s only one person in this entire place that would have witnessed even a smidgen of interaction between Phobe and me.
Jameson. That sonofabitch. I’m going to strangle him.
Letting my anger feed my will, I force myself to relax once again. Pain is coming. I can smell it in the air. Not that it matters, nothing they do will make me admit anything. Darvena’s golden eyes flash in anger. She expects me to be afraid enough to talk, and I’m essentially telling her to fuck off.
A mail-gloved fist to the side of my head takes me to my knees, hard. I blink, frantically trying to clear my vision as stars swim before me. Holy shit that hurt! Rickher lets go of my hair, and I fall to my hands. Spitting the blood in my mouth on the floor, I attempt to stand. A mail booted foot to the stomach lifts me a few inches off the ground, knocking me on to my side. The breath whooshes out of me before returning just as fast with a wheeze.
“Answer the lady!” Captain Obvious demands again. I ignore him, too busy using every bit of willpower I have to not plunk over face first. Coughing, I taste more blood in my mouth. Something is definitely broken in there. Gently, I cradle my stomach that’s starting to cramp in pain.
‘You’re too stubborn, Iza.’ Phobe’s voice whispers through my mind, distracting me from the well of pain that’s determinedly battering at me.
‘Yeah. Do I need to give you the nickname Captain Obvious, too?’ I bite out.
When I’m viciously kicked again, I lose the battle of trying to stand, falling over once again, on my side. Determined to at least hold my silence, I clench my teeth so hard one chips. Burning tears spring to my eyes, but my stubborn will keeps them from falling. Curling up into a fetal position, I wait for the overwhelming urge to puke to pass. It’s not that I care if they see me puke, wouldn’t be the first time, it’s more that I don’t want to lay in it.
Puke from an empty stomach stinks.
‘I will not help you,’ Phobe cautions.
It isn’t the first time he’s said those words. I doubt it will be the last. And he always words it that way, ‘won’t.’ Never 'can’t.' Not that I blame him at all, him helping me would absolutely make things worse. No matter the small sliver of satisfaction I’d get from him trying.
‘Good thing I hadn’t expected you to then.’ That’s just it; I never expect him to, so I don’t know if he’s reminding me because he thinks I want help or to remind himself not to help me. That might be an interesting conversation to have one day.
“Answer her now, whore, or I’ll stomp your face into the floor,” Captain Obvious yells, spraying his gross ass spit all over the side of my face. I don’t doubt he will.
Wiping my face and taking deep, hitching breaths—all while my ribs are screaming in protest, I say in between breaths, “You hit like a girl,” It’s not a lie. I might be knocked stupid, but I've been hit harder by a girl—more than once and with a lot more damage. Cap here needs to go work out a bit and build some muscle up if he wants anyone to take his threats seriously.
“I think perhaps he misunderstood the Beast’s helpfulness. He cares not a whit about her pain,” the golden-eyed bitch comments, her voice thick with satisfaction.
Truthfully, I don’t think he does either.
“Then tonight shall be an interesting one,” Arick says, sounding more excited about the prospect than I’ve ever heard him sound. I open my eyes to look in the direction of the magistrate’s voice. Written all over his face is a type of glee that gives me the immediate urge to run. Whatever is in his head doesn’t bode well for me.
My eyes go to Phobe who's looking down at me, his face absent any emotion whatsoever. There are times I doubt he feels anything at all. Not that it matters. The only question in my mind is, can he read their minds, too? Because that would be awesome and creepy at the same time.
“Leave us! Darvena and I are capable of controlling these two,” Arick orders.
The scuffling of departing feet breaks the silence followed by the slamming door. There’s a finality to it that makes the tension I’m trying hard not to show, rise. A soft step next to my head brings my eyes around to Darvena again, but she isn’t looking at me. She's looking at Phobe, and it doesn’t take much imagination to figure out what she's thinking.
She wants him bad. That’s the look of a starving woman, and he’s her favorite forbidden candy. The feeling is evidently not reciprocated. Phobe, showing something akin to emotion, is looking at Darvena like he wants to rip the skin from her body. That’s a homicidal look if I’ve seen one.
