Between Tides Thunder(88)
I already know—rage consumes him.
It’s in the dig of his blunt nails in my soft skin, in the rough scrape of his stubble against my neck, in the finger-shaped bruises he’s searing into my thighs.
“Zev,” I whisper. I can’t move, can’t see, can’t think. Only feel. “Zev, please.”
He stills.
His massive body presses harder into mine, until my lungs won’t expand, but I don’t care. I just need him close. I need him mine.
“Zev.” A plea, a prayer. “Zev, Zev, Zev.”
No teasing laugh. No whispered promise. No gravelly voice.
He gives me only his silence.
And his anger.
The sharp bite of teeth tugging my earlobe.
Rough knees forcing my thighs apart.
A large hand fisted in my hair.
I don’t care. I’ll take it all.
I’ll take whatever he gives me.
“Zev, please. I-I need—”
“You need? You need?” A low growl in my ear. “What about what I need?” His hand tightens in my hair, wrenching my head back.
Hot breath against my lips. I arch up, a desperate mewl, but he pins me in place. He denies me his kiss.
“I needed you to love me, Mayah. But you killed me instead.”
“I do! I do lov—”
A rough hand clamps over my mouth.
“No. More. Lies.” He settles between my legs.
A muffled moan, a ragged breath.
“Quiet. I’m going to take what I want.”
Yes. Yes. Yes. Take anything. Take everything.
Take me. Take all of me.
I’m yours.
Zev, Zev. I’m yours.
Zev, please. I’m sorry!
Zev.
Zev!
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
IDON’T WANT TO WAKE up.
I’ll have to live with what I’ve done—what I wanted.
Sleep abandons me anyway.
My eyelids flutter open. Beige canvas above me. The mattress beneath my body is thin, barely there. Damp, scratchy sheets tangle around my waist and legs. I try to swallow, but my mouth is bone-dry. A raspy cough escapes instead.
There’s an ache between my thighs. The wetness is damning.
But my head is clear. The fog of lust has dissipated, leaving me to face the cold clarity of reality.
A throat clears, a few feet away.
I bolt upright, one hand covering my chest, the other flung out in front of me. Vykiss’s face bears an apologetic smile.
“Have some water, Princess. I’ll fetch you something to eat.” She hands me a canteen, and before I can question her, the petite woman disappears through the tent flap.
I chug the water in heaving gulpfuls. My reserves are pitifully empty.
I’ve finished the canteen by the time she returns with a small tray laden with soup, bread, and some type of charred meat. My mouth waters, and I devour most of the food as soon as she sets the tray down.
“How long was I asleep?”
“Two and a half days.”
I drop the spoon.
“Did—did anyone come in?”
She shakes her head. “Sork—the general came to check on you a few times, but he didn’t enter the tent.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Vykiss.”
“Vy. Please.” Her smile is tentative.
I bite my lip, flicking my gaze toward her. “Vy, did I … say anything while I was asleep?”
She looks away, her face flaring a damning shade of pink.
“No, Princess.”
“Vy.”
Her lips press together. “At first, it was just sounds. You were panicked. Afraid, maybe? You kept saying no. Then, you were quiet for some time. I might’ve dozed off. But then, um …” She averts her gaze. “You kept saying Zev. Loudly.”
It’s my turn to flush.
“This doesn’t leave the tent,” I say, voice firm. “Please.”
Vy nods quickly. “Of course, Princess.”
With my hunger sated, my power again thrums inside me. The food soothed something primal. But nothing can ease the ache in my chest.
My feet are unsteady as I rise. Vy hands me a blue tunic—hers, I assume.
Sunlight punishes me as I exit the tent, blinding me for several heartbeats.
It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust.
When they finally do, I wish I had actually gone blind.
Zev is still chained to the platform directly across from my tent, exactly where I last saw him.
But he’s unrecognizable.
His face is a mess of angry, purple bruises and jagged, open cuts. Both eyes are swollen, though one is completely shut. His open eye is fixed on me, though I’m too far to read the emotion that passes through it. His shoulders drop slightly when he sees me.
His dark hair is matted against his forehead with what I know is blood. My gaze drags downward—his shirt has been cut away, but instead of any fabric, he wears evidence of a brutal beating. Every inch of his tanned skin is mottled with bruises—some red and fresh, others yellowing and faded.
I wish that was the worst of it.
Someone took a blade to him and carved thick, straight lines across the top of his chest in a neat, macabre row. A swathe of skin across his left flank is an unnatural black—rotting and leathery. An ice burn. Around the edges, his skin has paled to a sickly bluish-gray, ringed with bruises.