Chapter XIII
Freyr
The lycan’s expression doesn’t change, but something in the air does. There’s an almost sweetness to it that simultaneously makes me want to bare my throat and run as fast and far as I can.
He raises his chin, still staring. The gold of his irises almost looks like it’s moving, shining liquid in a bottle. Terrifying and hypnotizing, all at once. I hate them, and I can’t turn away.
His gaze is expectant. Is he waiting for something from me?
Oh. My demand. He makes it hard to think.
“I want you to speak.” I want to hear your voice. That sounds ridiculous, even in my head. I know better than to say it out loud, to give the thought life.
He doesn’t respond to the request, and I don’t even know why I thought he would.
Why there’s some kind of fucked-up hope in my chest that maybe this can go smoothly.
That maybe I can do this. We can have a conversation, come to an understanding, and both get out of this unscathed. No more unscathed?
As if thinking that suddenly everything would change just because I asked once more isn’t some form of insanity.
When I look at him, I don’t see an enemy, or someone to control or do my bidding—and not even because that look in his eye tells me he’ll never submit to anyone or anything—and if that isn’t insanity, I don’t know what is.
“Who are you? How did they find you?” Circling him, I resist the urge to reach forward and touch. The chains are reinforced; there’s no logical way he could get free. Yet there’s still a tendril of fear, being this close to his sheer strength.
Closing my eyes briefly and letting out a long, slow breath helps with some of the nerves and the impatience.
“I don’t like silence,” I admit quietly, making myself a little vulnerable.
“There’s too much room for thoughts. They poke and poke and poke until you’re laid bare and everything twists inside you, with no escape. ”
The lycan frowns, and one of his hands twitch, like he wants to pull at his restraints. My step back is instinctive and reveals too much of the kind of coward that I really am. That I flee, I don’t fight. I run, I don’t stand my ground.
That in a world of monsters, I should be at the top, and instead, I cower in the dark, hiding and waiting for everyone around me to protect me.
Sighing, I run a hand through my hair and pace again.
The movement is calming if nothing else.
“If you won’t dance for your dinner, what will you do?
” Tapping my fingers on the trolley of food, I study the sizzling meat.
It’s cooling, liquid oozing from it. “They have stories about alphas. What they can do. How vicious they are.” Some are used to scare vampyre children, others are warnings.
Only the elite stand a chance against them, and even then, no alpha has ever come through these walls. Or any vampyre’s walls.
He’s the first. That makes him more than special, it makes him a symbol. Then why is he being trusted with me? How could I ever hope to do something that no one else has done, when I can’t even do what has been done.
“They say once you have the scent of your prey, you can track them to the ends of the earth.” Not sure I’d want a nose that can smell that well, considering some of the awful odors out there.
I look up at him to see if he’s listening.
Of course, he is. Always listening. Always staring with those unnerving eyes.
“There are some that don’t believe you’re real.
That if there really were lycans that powerful, that we’d never have been able to maintain control.
” His eyes flicker, and I swallow hard, feeling like I’m almost in a trance.
“They say an alpha will fight to the death, and that when they’re close to death is when they’re the most dangerous.
” An animal backed into a corner. I can understand that even if being backed into a corner only makes me scared.
Thinking of me being a danger to anyone is laughable.
I step closer to him, heart racing. “When you attacked me”—the chains rattle as the lycan pulls at them—“I knew they were wrong. No matter what they think, they’ve only just scratched the surface of what you are, haven’t they?
” His lips pull back in a snarl, revealing sharp fangs.
The same ones that almost ripped my throat out.
I should be scared. And part of me is. A lot of me is. Underneath all of that is a sharp ache in my stomach, a kind of longing that extends my fangs and swirls inside of me like a typhoon.
“What exactly are you? Why do you make me feel like this?” Why am I drawn to you?
It’s a familiarity on the tip of my tongue.
One I don’t understand. I’m not sure I even want to.
This kind of… of connection, or whatever it is, it can’t lead to anything good.
The dread that sits with it tells me that.
His eyes narrow, sharpening. And still, he doesn’t say a word.
“Where did you come from?” I ask, frustration leaking through. “Give me something, anything!” The silence is beginning to grate on me, eating me alive from the inside. “Do you want to starve?” Somehow that impassive stare is worse.
With a heavy sigh, I refocus on the food. Cutting a piece of the still-steaming meat is embarrassingly awkward, but I eventually manage to get it on a fork. I’ve never eaten food in my entire life.
No time like the present.
I take a tentative bite and try not to gag at the strong taste. Forcing myself to eat it is a test in resolve, but I’m not about to spit it out like I’m an animal. “This is disgusting,” I mutter. “Who the hell eats this?” It tastes like… I can’t describe it. Not good. Understatement.
A glance at the lycan freezes me. There’s a lightly amused look on his face.
“Oh, shut up.” First real response to anything I’ve said, and it’s at my expense.
What a shock. I drop the offensive food onto the trolley, along with the fork, and wipe my hands on my pants as if I can get rid of the taste that way.
It’s lingering in my mouth like a bad smell.
Gulping down some of the warm blood helps. A little. Serves me right for trying to be adventurous. Backfired. Not doing that again.
“You eat this, right?” As far as I know. “You have to be starving by now.” It’s been days since he’s eaten, maybe longer. No question that he’s hungry. Beyond hungry. “All you have to do is give me one thing, and you can have it.”
I don’t even bother to wait to see if he’ll reply, instead turning my back on him to go back to my seat and my books. They don’t speak to me either, but at least they contain useful information.
Ignoring the werewolf in the room is impossible, but I do my best to not show just how much I’m aware of him. There’s a pull inside me, aching to turn and acknowledge him. I’ve never experienced anything like it, and I want it to go away. How do I make it go away?
Eventually, I can’t take it anymore. It could have been five minutes, it could have been five hours, I have no idea, because all of my focus has been spent on trying to pretend he doesn’t have my full attention.
That the words on the page in front of me don’t blur and twist together like dripping paint.
Tapping my fingers on the spine of the book, I look up, meeting that strangely familiar gaze. “What if I asked you yes-or-no questions? Then you could just nod or shake your head. Easy, right?”
That was definitely a distinct eyebrow raise. He’s toying with me, I just know it.
The food on the trolley is taunting me, like he is. Like the world does. Always waiting, taunting, laughing when I fall.
With a growl, I stand, letting the book tumble to the floor. Stalking over, I cut a new piece of the now-cold steak from before—the others might still be hot since they’re covered; I don’t care.
Taking it across to the beast, I shove the food against his mouth.
“Eat.” I can’t stay true to my word in this regard.
I can’t torture or inflict cruelty for the sake of reaching my goal.
There have to be better ways. Even at this, I fail as a vampyre.
I run from confrontation, not toward it.
Besides, won’t that kind of treatment only ask for revenge and retaliation?
Maybe not once they’re tamed, for most of them. But this lycan? I wouldn’t risk it, not for anything. I’ve stared into his eyes during a moment of violence, and I’d do anything to avoid it happening a second time.
“You have to be hungry, and this is the only way you can eat.” Reasoning hasn’t worked so far, but neither has anything else. Worth another try.
There’s not even a flicker of movement. Not in his lips, not in that intense stare. I might as well be staring into a wall. A very warm, intimidating, handsome wall. They build walls differently outside the castle grounds, obviously.
Trying to force the fork into his mouth doesn’t work either. His lips are made of steel. Much like his will. Hardly surprising.
The frustration is real when I throw the fork onto the trolley. It bounces off the side of the plate and onto the floor. I don’t care. It can stay there and rot until the room is so putrid the lycan begs me to clean it. His enhanced sense of smell will turn on him and become a torture.
That might not help with the whole “trying to get him to eat” thing, but it will make me feel better. Sometimes sacrifices have to be made for pettiness.
Dropping into the chair helps with the frustration too.
And yanking open a book and lifting it so it blocks out his face.
That should help me ignore him, but it doesn’t.
Even when I’m not in this room, I can’t ignore him.
The ache in my stomach worsens, and a niggling part of me wants nothing more than to return to him and have him focus solely on me, the way he always does when I’m in the room.
The words continue to blur and become one giant blob. I valiantly push on anyway. The pictures hold my attention for a single moment, at least. Visual aids always worked better for me than pages of text.
For Lilith’s sake. This is impossible. I drop the book back onto the pile. No use even pretending I’m reading it.
“Do you speak? There’s no shame if you can’t; there are other forms of communication.
Blink twice for yes.” Nothing. “We could do sign language.” Oh, wait.
“Um, never mind,” I mumble. It’s not like he can use his hands right now.
Letting those free just to be able to speak to him would be folly in its purest form.
Even I’m not that much of an idiot. Not usually. Not in this case?
“You could go the old-fashioned route and just speak to me,” I say under my breath. It’s not really directed at him, but it would be nice if it resonated at all and he said a word. Or more. Enough for a whole sentence. A paragraph.
Irritation prickles at me, mixed with other sensations and emotions that don’t make any sense to me. Ever since meeting him, my entire being has been in turmoil.
Before my brain can catch up, I’m on my feet and shoving the trolley out of the way so that I have unfettered access to him.
“You know, I can do whatever I want to you,” I growl, the words spilling out without thought.
“You belong to me. Do you even know what a privilege that is? Do you even know who I am?” There’s a part of me that cringes at using that line, but does he even know?
What do the werewolves outside of these walls know of the vampyres and their lineage?
Of the king that they serve? The ones under our thumb might know me.
Do the rebels? The small number of them that think they can live independently of our rule?
What would they know of us, when they avoid us?
Father sends legions every year, hunting them down, and still they continue to sprout like moonflowers reaching for the moon.
The lycan leans forward, showing teeth again. And then, for the first time, I get a response.
My blood runs cold at the harshly spoken words.
“I know who you are, Prince Freyr Dragomir. And I know your scent.”