Eldritch, p.45
Eldritch, page 45
Cupping a handful of warm water, he poured it up the length of my arm. “Your father doesn’t appear fit for travel.”
I couldn’t argue with that. His frail bones hardly seemed capable of carrying him down a corridor, let alone the vastness of Vonkovya. “If we could somehow secure a horse.”
“I’ve not seen one in the time we’ve been here. I’d venture to say there aren’t many that have managed to survive.”
“If he’s incapable of travel, Aleysia might be inclined to stay, as well.” Could I leave her there, though? Was the temple any safer without Sacton Crain?
As if sensing my apprehension, Zevander kissed the top of my head again. “We’ll discuss this in the morning. We need sleep, if we’re going to journey to the mountains.”
It was strange how quickly another day had passed.
He nudged me forward and stepped out of the tub, giving me a generous view of his muscled backside with water spilling down his body. He twisted around and I caught a fleeting glimpse of his chiseled abdomen that tapered to an exquisitely carved V-line before he slipped his arms beneath my legs and back, easily lifting me out of the tub.
“I have the strength to walk to the bed.” I wrapped my arms around his neck as he carried me there.
“I’m certain you do. For now.”
I smiled at that. “Is that a threat of what’s to come when I get there?”
“As thoroughly as I would enjoy that, I have to ensure your ability to travel afoot tomorrow, so I’ll resist the temptation.” Soft pillows met my back, when he laid me onto the bed. “But just in case, maybe I should sleep on the floor.”
“I hear the floor is terrible on the ass, and yours is so wonderfully sculpted.” I hiccuped and chuckled at myself. “I insist you share the bed with me.”
His lips pulled to a grin. “Ah, well, I wouldn’t want to journey with a sore, un-sculpted ass.” He bent down, pressing his lips to mine. “But what if I get ideas in the night?”
“Do you typically get ideas during your sleep?”
His brow kicked up. “Depends on what, or whom, I’m dreaming about.”
I frowned. “Have you dreamed of others and gotten ideas?”
“Yes. All of your personalities. My favorite is anger. She’s lovely in dreams.” As he bent low to kiss me again, I turned my face away.
“I’ve changed my mind. You can cuddle with the rats on the floor.”
He chuckled. “And stir your jealousy? I know better.”
“I’m not jealous. Unless, of course, they turn into beautiful princesses after midnight who want nothing more than to pleasure you for hours.”
His gaze remained fixed on mine, his lips pulling to a smile. “As tempting as that may be, I’d still choose you.”
“Why?”
He pushed a stray hair back toward the pillow beneath me. “You’re more than beautiful.”
I hiccuped again and slapped a hand over my mouth, giggling. “I think you might be a little drunk, if you think I’m more beautiful than magical rats becoming princesses.”
The smile on his face faded for something more serious. “Beautiful is too ordinary a word for you.”
“Ordinary?” I breathed a laugh. “And what would the mighty assassin call me if not beautiful?”
He trailed his fingertip down my temple. “I would call you the soft glow of moonlight in a pitch-black world. A prayer I never spoke aloud, but somehow the gods answered anyway. The strike of lightning I dare to behold without flinching.” His brow flickered as he ran his thumb over my bottom lip. “The reason I breathe.”
I stared up at him, certain that not a single person in my life had ever looked at me with the same gleam of reverence as he wore right then. “Perhaps I’m the one who’s intoxicated.”
He bent down and kissed me again. “Get some sleep, or I’ll be forced to carry you all the way to the Lyverian Mountains.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
ZEVANDER
Past …
The heady stench that clung to the air clogged the back of Zevander’s throat, triggering the urge to retch. He couldn’t stand the dampness of blood and fluids that’d absorbed into the bedsheets tangled around General Loyce like a lingering embrace. The undying, traitorous thing between his thighs, whose piercings marked each decade of his misery, remained stiff and rigid, thanks to his moon cycle—an agonizing ache Loyce couldn’t relieve no matter how hard she’d tried. She’d grown too jealous and possessive over Zevander to allow anyone else to attempt giving him the release he needed to lessen the pain, which meant he'd have to take care of it himself. Later though, when he’d be alone. When he could draw a blade across his flesh, without the general’s hands guiding it, and fantasize a different face, perhaps his own mate, somewhere far from this wretched place.
He sat at the foot of her bed, stroking his thumb over the skinny, white scars across his palm. Useless scars, linked to power he’d never wield.
Behind him, General Loyce lay sprawled across the bed, naked and satisfied enough to have fallen asleep. He eyed the dagger left on the table, beside cuts of cheese and meat that she’d tried to share with him earlier. Beyond it, a zephromyte guard stood in the shadowy corner of the room, watching him. Daring him.
Always present, even during their fucking.
Zevander no longer cared. The act meant nothing. After decades of it, he felt nothing. Not even shame. How many had he bedded and killed on her behalf? Thousands, maybe. Each one honing his skills. His mind and heart had grown so numb, he wondered if either were capable of perceiving and feeling, at all.
He could almost taste the blood that would splatter across his face, were he to split her throat open. The only complication would be the zephromyte, who’d take a bit more than a stab to the heart to kill, but godsteeth, he contemplated it. Could almost feel the elation of running that blade through her and watching the shock of betrayal fade from her eyes.
A knock broke into his musings. Zevander didn’t bother to cover himself, when the guard strode across the room for the door, and as he opened it to a Solassion soldier, Zevander eyed that dagger again, calculating its proximity to him and then to her.
“I’ve a message for General Loyce.”
She stirred at his back like a writhing serpent. Rough hands came from behind, palms gliding over his bare chest, and Zevander forced away the violent thoughts. “What is your message?” Her warm, humid breath wafted over him like swamp mist, as she planted a kiss on his neck.
The soldier stepped forward, gaze toward the floor, clearly uncomfortable at the sight of Zevander’s unclothed body. “Perhaps I might speak with you alone, General.”
“Perhaps you might get to the point of your intrusion, before I order your throat removed.”
He cleared said throat, glancing to the zephromyte and back.
A wet tongue caressed the shell of Zevander’s ear, and he braced his hands against the bed, for fear he’d reach back and throttle her.
“Mercenaries in Solassion armor were sent to Eidolon castle.”
Zevander froze, his body no longer registering her touch as his blood turned ice-cold.
“Who ordered this?” Loyce asked.
Gaze still cast downward, he shook his head. “I can’t say.”
“Well, I suggest you attempt to say, if you long to keep your cock attached to your body.” She continued to fondle Zevander, further stoking his impatience and irritation, as she issued the threat.
“I was not made privy to that information, General.”
She groaned, a sound Zevander knew as boredom on her part. “Well, then, who told you of this?”
“King Jeret’s advisor. One of them lives.” The soldier kept his answers brief and toneless.
“One of whom?” Zevander interrupted. “Who lives?”
The soldier’s eyes swept over Zevander and back, the pitying look on his face like something one might offer a stray dog. When he tipped his chin up, ignoring his question, Zevander lurched, but was held back by General Loyce’s embrace.
“Who lives?” she echoed.
“One of the mercenaries. He managed to escape.”
“Escape?” She circled the pad of her finger over his nipple, and godsblood, he had to temper the urge to swat her.
“It seems there was a counterattack.”
“From whom?” She kept on with her questioning, while Zevander hung on every word that spilled from the soldier’s mouth, desperate to know who might’ve attacked on his family’s behalf.
“The mercenary mentioned spiders. Hundreds of them.”
Spiders. Branimir’s. While they’d never done more than threaten to attack Zevander and his sister, he imagined his brother’s prodozja were capable of utter brutality, if given the opportunity.
“And what of the Rydainns?” It almost seemed as if General Loyce were asking for his benefit, the way she inquired the very questions pummeling his thoughts.
The soldier glanced at Zevander and back again. “I’m afraid I can’t say.”
“Speak what you know.” Zevander lunged for the soldier, but the General’s grip tightened around him again.
“Still yourself, Love,” she ordered and took hold of his throat. A warning. “I will ask the questions,” she whispered in his ear, and turned her attention back to the soldier. “How many mercenaries were sent?”
“A dozen? I can’t be sure.”
“Where is this prisoner now?”
“In the mines, General. I understand the warden has shown him favor.”
“Has he now?” She unraveled her arms from Zevander’s body. “Well, until we know who ordered the attack, I suppose he’ll remain in the warden’s care. You are dismissed.”
The soldier gave a nod and exited the room.
Zevander kicked his head to the side. “Give him to me,” he growled. “Let me kill him.”
She chuckled and climbed off the bed, swiping up a robe crumpled on the edge of it. “Not a plea for your freedom, but a battlecry for vengeance.”
“I’ve no intention of begging for something you’ll never grant me. I have loyally carried out your vengeance and expected nothing in return. I am asking you to deliver him to me. Allow me this one favor.”
“A favor that could cost me my head, if it was the king who ordered your family’s execution.”
“Would he have been sent to the mines for following a king’s orders?” Zevander challenged.
“No.” She sauntered toward the table holding the meat and cheese and poured herself a glass of wine. “He’d have been sent here for failing to comply. Tell me about these spiders.” She sipped the wine, staring at him over the rim of the glass.
“I know nothing of them.” He kept his face expressionless, as he’d been trained.
She lowered the glass, examining him, undoubtedly gauging whether she was still capable of reading him. “Then, I’m afraid I can’t help you. Return to the Gildona. I shall call on you later this evening.” An obvious bluff, but Zevander didn’t have time for her games, and he knew precisely how long she’d have been willing to keep it up.
“They were my brother’s prodosjza.”
Her brows raised. “I was not aware you had a brother. How intriguing.”
“He’s very ill. Weak and frail.” Another lie, for his brother’s sake.
“And yet, his prodozja managed to attack a dozen mercenaries, allowing only one to escape.”
“Even the frail can summon strength when defending his family.”
Her lips pulled to a smile, and she took another sip of her wine. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I’ve seen impressive feats of strength when passion drives it.” Slowly, she sauntered toward him and lowered herself between his legs. “Give me your seed. Bond with me. And I will deliver your vengeance on a golden platter.”
For years, she’d begged him for it, and as Zevander had come to learn, it was the only control he wielded over her. The only piece of himself left unsullied by her hands. While his body reacted to her abuses by ejaculating, it wasn’t the same as the binding essence between mates. A silvery opalescent fluid that, upon entering a mate’s body, was known to be the most transcendent pleasure in existence. It required a very sacred ritual and the exchange of blood.
His stomach sank at the thought, but with his last breath, he would see to it that the attack against his family was properly avenged. “I’ll do it.”
“You long to humiliate me. Is that it?” General Loyce paced in front of Zevander, as he lay bound by his wrists and ankles, the stony slab of a bed beneath him pressing against his spine. The air around him crackled with her rage, and Zevander wondered if he’d ever seen her so angry. For days, she’d milked him for release, exchanged enough blood to make him dizzy, and had forced him to fuck her for hours. She’d even brought in other female servants to initiate the bond.
His body refused.
As much as he’d prayed to the gods, had coaxed himself into believing she could possibly be his mate, he couldn’t bring himself to consummate with the binding essence. Not even when she’d resorted to violent punishment.
He’d heard of arranged bonds before, knew that, unless mated to another, two individuals could successfully form a bond. Why his body was so adamantly against it was a mystery.
Fury flashed in her eyes, and she gripped the hilt of the dagger at her hip. “You’ve bonded with another. You must have!” The palm of her hand came swift, cracking against his cheek.
The slaps to his face no longer fazed him, and he kept his gaze locked on her. “I’ve been a prisoner of these mines since I was a boy. Far too young to have stumbled upon a mate.”
Lines of worry wrinkled her face, as she ran her hand through her long, blonde hair. “I have sought the council of mages. The only circumstance that would prevent a bond is another mate. I will know who you bonded with, if I have to kill every fucking slave and prisoner!” she snarled.
“You are familiar with every inch of my flesh, so you know I do not bear the mark of another mancer.”
“No, and still, your body rejects me.” She stood over him, hands at either side of his body, an unbridled rage clouding her eyes. “You are mine. If I have to draw seed from your corpse, I will have you.” Her chin quivered, her face a battle of emotions, and Zevander would’ve laughed at the indignity of it all, if he weren’t so desperate to exact his revenge. An unsettling calm bloomed through the cracks of her anger, and she caressed his cheek where she’d slapped him. “I will not fault you for what you cannot control, though.” She waved her hand to the other guard in the room, who quickly exited at her command.
Seconds later, he returned with a man, a blond whose face bore the swelling and cuts of a beating.
She urged him to his knees, and with little resistance, he sank to the floor. “This is the mercenary who escaped your family’s home.”
Zevander’s muscles tensed, his eyes fixated on the man with the wrath of a rabid animal. “Free me from the binds,” he growled.
“I’ve some questions for him first.” She casually circled the prisoner, dragging her fingers across his chest, and he flinched when her hand brushed his cheek. “Tell us again what happened to Lady Rydainn.” Clearly, she’d already interrogated him once, judging by the way his lip quivered.
“She …” He swallowed a gulp. “She had been violated.”
“By one. Two of you. Three of you?” the general asked, and Zevander’s blood surged with heat and adrenaline, the need to physically destroy something tingling across his palms.
When the prisoner didn’t answer, she hammered a punch to his face that kicked his head to the side, knocking a tooth loose.
Not enough punishment to satisfy Zevander.
“All of us.” He spat blood on the floor and let out a whimper. “All of us!”
“And the young girl?”
His lip trembled, and he snapped his gaze toward the empty half of the cell. “They went after her next.”
Zevander’s muscles shook, pain streaking across his wrists where the manacles bit into them. If only the gods were merciful enough to break his binds, the man would be nothing more than a pool of blood and bones.
“They?” Loyce asked.
“I…had wandered out to take a piss when…I first heard the screams.”
“Whose screams?” Loyce sauntered back toward Zevander and ran her hand over his arm, which was so rigid, he hardly registered the touch. She gave a squeeze and dragged her palm over his tightly clenched stomach.
The prisoner hesitated at first, wincing when he said, “The girl’s. They had killed the mother.”
What he’d said didn’t absorb at first, spoken so nonchalantly, as banal an observation as a bird having flown overhead. His mother. Violated and murdered.
Dead.
Somehow, the words couldn’t touch him, as though trapped behind a veil of steel. Only a haze of bloody red penetrated his thoughts. A longing to tear skin from bones and limbs from torso. He wanted gurgling screams and pain, his body such a glutton for violence, it shook him into paralysis.
“And so you decided to indulge in the sister afterward?” Her questions were a distant sound in his mind, as if spoken underwater.
“I didn’t touch her.”
Zevander’s vision blurred with rage, the room expanding and shrinking around him.
Loyce chuckled, the sound reverberating off his skull. “And what inspired this sudden sense of conscience?”
“We …. They were attacked. There were…spiders. They came for them out of nowhere. Started spinning an enormous web, trapping them inside of it.”
Zevander imagined the rage it must’ve taken to rouse Branimir from his underground cell—a place he hadn’t left in the years Zevander had known him.
“And where were you?”
“Peering in through the window. Watched the spiders wrap them up like flies. Eating them with those…long fangs and the saliva that burned their skin. I jumped from the balcony. Didn’t care if I died. Landed in a row of hedges.”
“And did anyone, aside from yourself, survive?” She bent over Zevander’s stomach, pressing a kiss there at the same time as digging her nails into his thigh.
