He’s a Vaegor. A tyrant. Tyrants lie to themselves as much as they lie to others.
I know what happens in this prison. I’ve heard enough stories to wither my guts for eternity. If he’s going to have his way with me, I refuse to walk into that room blind. I’d rather force him to look me in the eye as he ruins another part of me. Make him feel every fracture.
Every bruise.
He stands still for a long, hard moment, then flops back his hood and moves into the room, not stopping until he reaches the other side. He turns and leans against the wall, crosses his arms, and waits like a stone statue carved by the Creators themselves. Strong jaw, chiseled cheekbones, muscular neck. Every angle hacked with such precision he’s almost painful to look at.
Frowning, I shuffle forward, easing into the room lit by a jar of captured moonlight set on one of the many shelves lining all four walls.
Impressive. Those are pretty hard to come by.
I note the tall mender’s pallet and padded chair beside it, my gaze whipping to the female standing in the corner, her hair a crop of brown curls that match her eyes and skin but contrast with the floor-length Runi robe she’s garbed in.
She gives me a soft smile that does nothing to stop my heart from plummeting.
I don’t bother taking in the buttons pinning together the front seam of her robe—the ones that symbolize her strengths. I already know what I’ll see.
She can fleshthread.
“This better be a threesome,” I grind out.
“I’m not one to share,” the King says, his voice low and steady. “But if that’s what you really want, it can be arranged once your back is healed.”
He obviously thinks he’s hilarious, but I’m not laughing, my pulse a violent churn I can’t seem to slow.
The Runi takes a step toward me, her face still warmed by a comforting smile. “Greetings, Prisoner Seventy-Three. I’m Bhea. Why don’t you let me help you remove your tunic so I can take a look at your ba—”
“There’s no point healing me,” I growl, cutting a glare at the King. “It would be a wasteful misuse of this female’s skill and energy.”
“Bhea has been well compensated for her service and is more than happy to help.”
“Does she know I’m destined for the coliseum?” His lips tug into a tight line, so I stab my stare at Bhea instead. “Do you?”
“I do,” she whispers.
“Then why bother?”
“Because you’re in pain,” the King announces, like that’s an answer at all.
“Pain that’ll stop once I’m fed to the dragons!”
“Please.” Bhea steals another step forward. “We don’t have much time if I’m to do my best work.”
My foot slides back.
She stills, and though the King doesn’t shift from his spot against the wall, something locks into place in the void between us. As though physical strings knot around my ribs, stretch across the room, and tether to his, making it impossible for me to draw a single breath without him noticing.
My skin nettles, and I become primitively aware that he’s waiting for me to run.
That he will chase.
He tips his head, as if in silent appraisal of my tumultuous inner monologue, which just pisses me off. I’m bluntly aware that in my current state I’d make it two steps before he’d be upon me, dragging me back to this very position, waiting for me to concede.
Dammit.
“You will leave your weald at the door.”
“I have three, Moonbeam.”
“The one with the dragonflame, Sire.”
A line forms between his brows, gone the next moment as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his weald, tossing it through the air—a perfect throw that plummets into my outstretched hand.
I lob it down the hall, hearing it clatter across the stone.
This is such bullshit.
I move farther into the room, scanning the worktable that’s littered with jars of tinctures, vials, bowls, etching sticks, and containers packed full of medicinal tools. Too many things that remind me of Essi.
The sooner this is done, the sooner I can leave.
With my heart lodged in the back of my throat, I move toward the chair, unpicking the buttons of my loose tunic. “I was kidding about the threesome,” I snip, releasing the final two while murdering the King with a glare. “There is no reality where I’d willingly fuck you.”
He doesn’t break my stare as he says, almost too soft for me to hear, “Turn around, Moonbeam. Take a seat in the chair so Bhea can get started.”