The phantom, p.26
The Phantom, page 26
With her head held high, she approached Roux. He stood before the table laden with weapons, his back to her. Behind him was the other table—crimson wet the chains. That blood had come as the women strained for relief.
What was he soon to do to her? She gulped. More importantly, what thoughts whirred in his mind?
The muscles in his shoulders bunched as soon as she reached the area. With a monotone voice, he instructed, “Lie on the table and shackle yourself.”
Willingly shackle herself, exactly as the others had done or resist like a normal person and appear fearful. Not off to a great start.
“Sir, yes, sir,” she chirped a little too brightly. Limbs trembling a little, she cinched the cold metal around her ankles, then one of her wrists. Roux had to reach back to clamp the second shackle around the other, which he did without facing her. Suddenly, she had a direct view of the royal dais and the nine sets of eyes watching her with varying degrees of glee.
For their benefit, she pretended to get comfortable.
When Roux pivoted toward her at last, she forgot their audience. Forgot everything but him...her surprise second consort. The alevala rippled, as if preparing to jump from his skin. He’d blanked his features, but hadn’t doused the red flickering in his irises. And oh, did those eyes project all kinds of torment.
He might have acted as if he didn’t want her anymore, but he clearly despised the thought of harming her. Some of her anger dulled.
As he locked that crimson gaze on her, she only wished to hug him.
“It’s okay, babe,” she said for his ears alone. “I’ll recover.”
A muscle jumped beneath his eye. After sheathing a hooked dagger in his belt, he lifted his chin and approached her. He flattened his palms near her shoulders and leaned over to align his face with hers, forcing her to stare straight up at him. His scent enveloped her, fogging her thoughts as usual. Only a compromised judgment explained the delicious melting of her bones right before a torture session.
“I will ask you the same questions I asked everyone else, harpy.” The coldness of his tone sent chills down her spine. “Whether you answer them or not, lie or tell the truth, I’m going to hurt you as much as I hurt the others. Know that every infusion of pain will be worse than the last. This won’t get better until you speak one of four words. Do you remember those words?”
“I do.” Stop. No. Please. Don’t.
And he’d called her harpy? Here and now? Seriously? Why hadn’t he used her nickname? Talk about a gut punch at the worst moment! Did he hope to put even more distance between them?
Would she do the same if—when—the situation reversed, and she oversaw his pain?
Could she? Should she?
“Prove you know them.” His voice dipped. So did his head. He ghosted the tip of his nose against hers. “Tell me one.”
The almost touch stole her breath. Focus. She opened her mouth to comply with his demand. Wait. “Ha! You won’t trick me that easily.”
He bared his teeth in a parody of a grin. “Very well. Pain it is.”
“Do what you gotta do. There will be no tears tonight. Or ever. No accusations or blame, either. Just...be there for me afterward, okay?” Maybe they would have that talk about what had happened between them, after all. Hearing a pledge of devotion from him wouldn’t be the worst thing.
He slitted his lids, as if she’d just shrieked obscenities. Um. Okay? Silent, he straightened, revealing two metal bands clutched in his grip. He fit each one around her throat and snapped them together. Then he lifted a table end, making her vertical.
Her chin caught on the suddenly too-tight neck band, which restricted her airway. Not enough to choke her, but enough to keep her on edge.
He eased onto the stool, rested his elbows on his knees, and peered up at her. “Start the clock,” he called without glancing at those on the dais. “We begin now.”
“Clock started,” Tonka returned.
“First question.” Roux unsheathed the dagger, gripping it by the hooked blade rather than the hilt, and flicked his tongue over an incisor. “Do you hate me?”
“Uh...yes? No?” He’d seriously asked the others that question? “I don’t know.”
The next thing she knew, agony like she’d never known somehow entered through her nostrils, as if she’d sucked it down with her last inhalation and it infiltrated her every cell. Those cells seemed to explode in her veins. Her lungs flattened, breathing impossible, and her vision blurred. But just as soon as the pain began, it ceased, taking all the complications with it.
“That was the easy part?” she screeched. “How did you do that?” Better yet, what had he done?
“I’m able to manipulate the atmosphere surrounding me. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do it since I couldn’t produce sleeping gas. But I can make the pain toxin. And harpy? The ability is supercharged here. With a simple thought, I will make you and only you inhale a poison unlike anything you’ve ever encountered.” His blank expression never changed, but the red in his eyes never dulled, either. Even more telling, blood dripped from the hand holding the blade.
Her chest clenched. He hadn’t cut himself with the other combatants. That, she knew. So why do it now?
Because he insisted on hurting when Blythe hurt? He must.
The knowledge affected her. Something softened in her chest even as her determination hardened into stone. There’d be no more screeching on her part. Whatever he dished, she would take. Happily.
“Next question,” he said. “Do you plan to kill me?”
“I don’t know,” she repeated. “I’m still debating it.”
Pain hit again, and yeah, it was even worse, exactly as advertised. He let it last longer, too.
“When did you find the firstone dagger?” he asked.
“Find it? I didn’t. I—” The next wave of poison was pure agony, as if every inch of her insides had been scraped raw and bathed in acid. Sweat trickled here and there. Blood leaked from nearly every orifice; it even poured from the wounds the chains caused as her body involuntarily flailed. Multiple bones cracked.
“Fourth question,” he said. “Did you ever truly desire me?”
Blythe struggled to concentrate. His question struck her as odd...maybe? She knew nothing but a creeping dread as she anticipated the fourth wave. Need to respond. No, no, need to think!
How much longer on the clock? What had happened to her determination?
“Respond to my final question,” her tormentor insisted.
“F-final?” She had to endure the pain once more? Had a tear slipped down her cheek? What had he asked? She had a vague memory...oh! Desire. “I got wet, didn’t I?”
More pain. More than she’d ever endured in her life. Her mind cracked, and so did another handful of bones. She might have bellowed. Or whimpered. She couldn’t be sure. Knew nothing but agony.
“It’s done,” her tormentor shouted. This wasn’t Roux, she decided. This couldn’t be Roux. This was a stranger. The one who’d hurt her. “She has proven victorious.”
Suddenly, the chains fell off and she fell forward. Powerful arms caught her before she hit the sand and cradled her against a firm body. Beneath her cheek, a strong heartbeat galloped.
“I’ve got you,” the stranger said, his tone broken.
Only a moment later, softness pressed against her back and the steadying arms vanished.
“Drink,” he commanded.
Blythe thrashed, shaking her head violently. Drink from the one who’d delivered such anguish? No. She needed Roux. The Astra. Her Astra. She wanted his stare and his intensity and his strength and his innocence and his ferocity and his rusty laugh and his unintentional jokes. Where was he?
“Drink.” A harsher command with frayed edges. “Feed.”
No!
Something warm and wet dripped upon her lips. The metallic scent drew out her tongue, and there was no stopping it. At the sweet taste of warm blood and crackling power, Blythe almost grabbed onto the source and bit down. But still she fought him. Need Roux!
“Calm for me, Lyla. Calm. Please. Breathe deep. Exhale. Inhale again. That’s my good girl.”
That nickname. She’d missed it more than she could ever admit. And the blood. She knew and loved the taste. Yes? She sniffed. Mmm. She did! It was Roux’s. A tantalizing blend of cedarwood and spiced oranges. He was here, caring for her, the tormentor gone.
She sagged into a puddle of goo. As the droplets of his blood turned into a river, she opened wide, guzzling greedily.
“Yes. Feed from me,” he told her. “Take my soul, too, beauty.”
Yes. Feed on Roux. She locked her mouth on his flesh and sucked a tendril of decadent, powerful soul. Most of her weakness fled in an instant, and yet her fatigue remained. Last night’s lack of rest had caught up with her. But she wasn’t worried. The Astra was here, and he was touching her. All would be well.
Blythe let herself drift into oblivion.
26
THE ARRIVAL
As the harphantom rested in bed, Roux stormed through the bedroom. Roaring inwardly with a rage like no other, he flipped over the desk and shredded the wood with his claws. Smashed the dresser. Punched holes in several walls. Dismantled his chair. Despite the noise, Blythe continued to rest.
His thoughts refused to settle. He’d hurt her. Hurt her so bad. How could he do such a terrible thing to his gravita? How?
The worst part and something she might not ever forgive once she awoke? Using the torture session to question her about her feelings for him. A cowardly, vindictive, foolish move. He deserved her hatred.
Knowing his requirement to ask the same questions of every female, as well as inflict the same amount of injury the same way, he’d started with Carrigan. She, of course, hadn’t known what he’d even meant when he’d asked if she hated and desired him. But it was as she’d struggled to make sense of his words while combating pure agony that he’d begun to understand the crux of his mistake. He would rather not know the truth than torment his gravita like this. Yet he had been stuck, one hundred percent locked into his path, and there’d been no going back. With every combatant, his dread of Blythe’s turn had magnified.
Roaring inwardly again, he punched new holes in the walls. Dust and debris coated the air. His knuckles shattered, skin splitting. Veins and an artery were severed in his wrist. Sprays of blood wet the floor before he healed.
“Roux?”
His heart stuttered in his chest. He flashed to the side of the bed. Her eyes remained closed, but any semblance of calm had left her. She tossed and turned; her features pinched.
“I’m here, Lyla. I’m here,” he said, caressing her brow.
Though he’d done nothing to warrant the comfort of her nearness, he stretched out on the mattress and gathered his gravita into his arms. Just like that. She sighed with contentment and settled against him.
A tendril of hope unfurled. Maybe he wasn’t doomed to lose her?
He clutched her close, afraid to let go. A sharp scream erupted inside his head, reminding him of his earlier roars and how the two possessed the same tone and tenor. As if Roux himself was somehow the escapee—or his twin was. But he knew better. His brother had never tasted freedom. Had he? Unlike the others, Rowan preferred incarceration to freedom. No surer way to torment Roux for eternity.
Frowning, needing an escape from his current reality, he did something he despised. He turned his attention inward and ventured down, down, down to the darkest recesses of his mind. The closer he came to the prison, the louder the symphony of moans, groans, and grunts became. As his mental eyes adjusted to the gloom, a barred wall appeared, a pristine Rowan seated beyond them.
It was like seeing his childhood self in a mirror. Always a shock and horror.
“Hello, brother,” Rowan crooned with a wicked grin. “I must admit, I expected you sooner.”
He appeared exactly as he’d looked before he’d died: nine years old, dressed in a leather suit bestowed upon him by their father. At the moment, he leaned against the cell’s back wall, a leg extended, with the other bent at the knee, acting as a resting place for an elbow.
The smug superiority he evinced scraped at Roux’s nerves. “Have you left your cage?”
“No pleasantries, then? No warm-up before we dive into what it is you seek from me?” Rowan shrugged his shoulders. He might look nine, but he’d matured over the centuries. He stood and stretched. “Okay. I’ll play. No, I haven’t left my cage.”
“Who has been running rampant in my head, reacting to my woman?”
“Ah. You mean the harpy. Our gravita.”
Snarling, he gripped and shook the bars. “Mine! Not ours.” He refused to share her with another, even his dead brother. “Mine alone.”
Rowan unveiled another grin and strode closer. “Who do you think has been running rampant? No, no. Let me guess. The female’s consort, yes? No, no reason to verify. I see it on your face.” He offered a sorry-for-you wince. “Unfortunately for you, you’re as right as I am.”
No. No! “I did not absorb him.” But now he wondered... Isla claimed she’d spoken to a prisoner he’d hidden from himself. Could it be her own father?
“Are you sure?” Rowan asked. “Because I’ve seen his face. Have you?”
Laban...in his mind... No, Roux thought again, shaking his head. “Prove it.” His twin had been a trickster in life, and he remained so in death.
“I don’t have to prove anything. The suspicion alone will drive you mad. But sure. I’ll keep playing this game. How about this? His cell door is open, allowing him to come and go as he pleases. He’s there now. Just down that hall in cell block D.” Rowan hiked his thumb to the right. “Visit him. If you dare.”
Roux’s gaze darted in that direction, where a wall of thick shadows hid what lay behind. He could navigate the twisting, winding corridors, but odds were good he’d lose track of time as well as the world around him. Here, now, he had only moments to spare. More than that, he wasn’t sure he wanted verification.
How would Blythe react to knowing beyond any doubt that Laban lived in Roux’s head, and that was the only reason she had desired him? If she hadn’t faked her desire for him.
Would she resent him? How could she not?
Would she demand he find a way to free the male? Again, how could she not?
Would she leave him if he succeeded? Or hate him even more if he failed?
Would she think of Laban whenever Roux claimed her body?
Dread pricked his nape, and sickness filled his stomach. To risk his mission now... No. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. And without verification, he shouldn’t mention it to Blythe. Just in case Rowan lied. Yes, yes. All reasonable. Perfectly understandable. But how could he not tell her?
Roux had made so many mistakes with her already. Could he truly afford to make another?
Rowan leaned his shoulder against the bars. “You’re going to lose her, you know? You are a clone, brother. Nothing but an experiment gone wrong. You were never meant to exist. The only purpose you served died when you murdered Father.”
Words he’d heard before. Words he’d pondered throughout the whole of his life. Until Blythe. The woman he’d just tortured for information—the woman whose consort might be stuck in Roux’s head. The very reason she might consider him a consort.
Might? Ha. The other male must be here, and she must perceive him. Nothing else made sense.
Roux did not wish to share her with anyone. “Why do you hate me so much?”
“Why do you hate yourself so much?”
He bared his teeth rather than offer an answer. “You lived a life of luxury while I suffered in agony. You had the adoration of Mars, and I had his disdain. You could have been a bright light to me, yet you chose to be more darkness. Why?”
The boy lifted his shoulders in another negligent shrug. “I accepted what you couldn’t, I suppose.”
“And what was that?”
“Only one of us was meant to survive. Father knew it, too. I think he hoped to prove himself the strongest of us. In that, however, he certainly bombed. Just as you will bomb with the female.”
“I will not. I will fight for her, and I will win her.” He jolted. Yes. Decision made. He would have her. Keep her. Find some semblance of joy in his life. He only wished he’d hidden it from his brother.
Roux backed away from the cell then. Looked like he’d be dealing with her whether he was ready to do so or not.
She’d said she wouldn’t blame him for inflicting pain upon her. No tears. No accusations. Maybe she’d spoken true. But how would she react to the truth about Laban? Would Roux lose her for good?
“Where are you going?” Rowan asked with another grin. “Why are you going? Was it something I said?”
Roux blinked open his eyes, the hearth-lit bedroom coming into view. He was panting. Sweat bathed him. He still held the harpy, but his grip had tightened. Can’t lose her. Just...can’t.
* * *
Blythe awoke with a start, gasping. Took a moment for her mind to switch from off to on. Sunlight illuminated the ceiling of her bedroom in Ation. She lay in bed with Roux. The Astra rested on his side and peered at her; his expression contorted with strain. The most he’d ever demonstrated.
She rolled toward him, instantly concerned, and cupped his strong jaw. “What’s wrong, babe? Tell me, and I’ll fix it.”
He croaked, “I am so sorry.”
He was sorry? But why? What—Her brow wrinkled. Wait. Memories returned in a snap. The tournament. The torture session. The something that had bothered her suddenly crystalized, and she sucked in a breath, jolting upright. Only then did she notice the destruction surrounding her.
