Chapter 6
My entire life chaotically swirls together while staring at Soren when he faces me. I take a few steps back, my eyes drifting to his lower half. My father always told me to judge a man not by his words, but by his boots: they’re worn, thick, expensive, and purely militant.
Well... he’s the real deal. He’s dressed like a mercenary, from his thick leather pants that are stained red, to his leather vest and braziers, all bearing the marks of countless clashes with enemies. Let alone all the knives, daggers, and shiny objects lining his body, especially the metal armor on his outer thighs and shoulders.
And what a terrifying body—everyone calls themselves large when they hit a certain height, but this man is... massive. Broad and thickly muscled, like all he does is kill people for a living. His weathered, dirty hand reaches for the hilt of his sword. His unnervingly clear-cut eyes stare right through me.
“What are you doing here?” I demand, jerking my head to get some of my hair out of my eyes. “Why were you in Coalfell? Why were you after me?”
Soren’s face is interesting, I’ll give him that. It’s hard, very hard, like the skin of his cheeks have been thickened by war. Probably mid-thirties. Yet, he’s handsome, but not in a conventional way—just unnaturally attractive for a killer. Everything is in proportion, those eyes the palest, clearest blue, his jaw strong and masculine. There’s a deep scar along the side of his face, along with three healed gashes over his left eyebrow, but it completely fits the rough, dirty demeanor.
One would think being attractive has very little to do with survival, but lessons from Kathleen whisper in my mind.
Would Soren be easy to distract? In that way?
I quickly decide he’s attractive enough for me to play whatever part I must, as long as it means I’ll have a shot to run for it.
“You just going to stare at me, love?” he asks, dark curiosity laced in his captivatingly rough voice, ignoring my question.
I drop my gaze, not sure what to do or say. I’m in Soren’s grip and I’m not dead, yet. As mercenaries are, they’re only allies to whoever is paying. Then again, he’s a Zenith, so he’d be the one paying... just how much cruelty is he willing to use on me?
“You going to hurt me?” I ask, my lighter voice contrasting against his. I clear my throat, like it’ll somehow make the tone deeper.
He takes me in like he’s examining bound cattle. The rough fibers of the rope burn into my skin, tightening with my wriggling.
“If that’s your thing, I suppose I can. Whatever it takes to get you to tell me who the fuck you are.”
His manners certainly match his demeanor.
“Who wants me?”
With my arms tied, I’m pretty sure all I can do is headbutt his armored chest, but hells, it’s better than standing here. If he’s going to resort to hurting me, then I’ll put up whatever fight I have to.
He removes his hand from the sword at his side, as if deciding I won’t be requiring such measures. Rolling his fingers, I catch the detail of the mismatched rings he wears—a sign that he loots and steals what he likes.
“The Council.” He tuts, strutting over to a side table lined with many, empty crystal glasses. He may have given his back to me, but I know his guard is anything but down.
Soren pours himself a glass of golden liquid and examines it, setting the decanter down with a dull thud. “Sounds ridiculous, saying the name out loud. They can come up with Skull’s Row, the Zenith... and then the Council . Was there really no better option?” He faces me, those icy eyes penetrating as smoothly as his steel blades. “It’s my equals that want you, though. And for some reason, they want you badly.”
My lips part, empty air escaping. I can only imagine they’re after one thing in particular, but I also don’t know how that’s possible.
No—I have to evade this, one way or another. Whether I have to fight or fuck my way out of this remains unclear, but I will change plans at a moment’s notice to accommodate survival.
He nears me, his footsteps heavy on the wood, sipping on his drink, not even blinking. His gaze trails my face, licking his annoyingly enticing lips when he lowers the glass. “You look like someone that might bite a cock off rather than suck it like those pretty lips could,” he says, reaching out to run a thumb over my mouth.
Oh, no he doesn’t. I take a bite at his thumb, and he snickers while jerking his hand back, like he’s pleased by that. “Your hair is quite nice...” His voice is somehow rougher when he’s this close. “But I don’t think they want you for that, either—” his gaze slices to meet mine “—so if they’re not after you to fuck you, then who in the hells are you?”
“Funny, that. I’d also like to know.” So… he’s curious about me? “And why don’t you know, if you’re one of them—“
A sensation of vertigo almost unsteadies me, my knees weakening. I swallow thickly and crane my head to look into the face that’s so cold I doubt it’s ever felt warmth. “I need to heal myself,” I mumble.
He cocks his head, raising a dark brow. “You also need to heal my man’s nose.”
I huff. “No. He held me down while I got hit in the head.”
Soren shrugs, his leather crinkling with the motion. “I gave the order.”
“Then you’re lucky I’m tied up,” I mock back.
If Kathleen were here, she’d be pushing me away, apologizing profusely for my ill temper. She’s done it more than once at taverns. She better be alive and all right…
He laughs, the expression almost inviting. “Little one, I could control you with my foot .”
“A real tough man you are then, needing me bound,” I quip, raising an eyebrow in challenge.
He takes another slow sip of his liquor. I don’t like that he’s so hard to read. Is he violent for no reason? The harassing kind? Or is he going to just hold me close to the flames all night, only ever singeing my hair?
“You really threatening me?”
I suppose I am. I’m in the home of a Zenith, wanted by the Council. This isn’t going to end well for me, no matter what I do, so I might as well go out with some control over the situation. It’ll either kill me, or I’ll miraculously escape.
What’s there to lose?
I sigh and look down at my binding, my head aching, my bladder reminding me it’s been a while since I voided it. “What are you going to do when I have to piss?”
“You’re not staying that way, so don’t start bitching about it.” He places his drink down so he can unsheathe a blade, and my heart freezes. I’d rather choke in the flames than be cut to pieces. He holds it to my neck with such fluidity that I’m certain he knows how to stab me ten times and miss every artery. His face is in mine, his breath smelling of smooth alcohol, those pale eyes captivatingly haunting. “You run from me, and I’ll break both your fucking ankles and bind your healing hands so you can’t fix them. Do you understand?”
“I won’t run,” I quietly say.
“I don’t believe you,” he states, as if the idea is interesting, lowering his blade to snip the rope. “But I could use the entertainment.”
It falls to the ground, and I immediately scan the floor for any bit of help. Any weapon.
The search is pointless because a second later, he throws me over his shoulder. I start flailing, but he’s a big fucker, and I‘m, well, not very big at all. Darkness threatens the edge of my vision, my pulse beating at my temples. My head hurts so bad that all I manage is a groan. I stare at the back of his legs, holding onto his hips for stability to minimize my brain from jostling as he walks.
Staring at my hands braced against his hips, I consider fumbling for a blade.
No. Observe your surroundings .
His voice echoes in my mind, piercing through the chaos to chastise my erratic behavior. I let it linger so it can help me focus... what will pissing off Soren get me? Nothing more than an escalation of pain, and I need clarity to make it out of this, not torment.
We descend into what appears to be a dungeon, the rough surface of the dark stone bearing the weight of hidden secrets, the air damp and smelling like candle wax. We make a turn, and I can see more boots before entering what seems to be a room, guards standing outside the door.
Soren sets me down.
“What is this place?” I whimper, my agonized skull pounding so badly I want to vomit. Survival pieces ugly ideas together when I stare at the plain bed inches away from where we stand.
“Some Zenith like their toys afraid. Or bound and desperate. Or locked away for months so they’ll do anything when they see them,” he explains, amusement laced in his rugged voice.
I face the armored behemoth as he runs a hand over his black hair to smooth it back. He blocks the doorway. My eyes flutter as I slur through the agony, “You say that like you’ve done it.”
“Course I have,” he calmly quips. “But for now, it’s your little dungeon—” He takes a step back, placing a hand on the door, those frigid eyes smiling at me, even if his lips remain poised. “Good luck trying to escape.”
“This is cruel!” I get out through heavy breaths, the sparse environment inducing claustrophobia. I take advantage of it to attempt any pity that he may harbor. “Just deliver whatever the hells you’re going to give me.”
He hovers in the doorway, the mercenary too trained to reveal what he’s really thinking. “I don’t make the orders, love. But I’m one of the Zenith, and if they all want you, then I owe them loyalty before you, obviously. We start our journey toward Skull’s Row on the morrow.”
He backs away, shutting the door while maintaining eye contact before all I see is wood. The subsequent slamming of a bar feels almost deliberate, as if to make it a point that I’m stuck in here.
I don’t know how long I stand there, shocked, and horrified. My village is burned down—thoughts of Kathleen sear my heart—and there was most certainly a fire mage present. Still waters now have ripples in them; wars always start like this.
And now Soren, of all the damn Zenith, is assigned to take me somewhere inhospitable. It’s like having a council of kings and sending one of their own to get the job done, and this particular Zenith is ascribed by legends of carnage, paired with an ability to snatch anyone, no matter if they’re as thin as smoke.
How the fuck do I escape this?
I place a hand over my heart, between my breasts, where my tattoo is. All they have to do is look for it, and they’ll know.
They’ll know everything.
So why hasn’t Soren searched for it, yet? Wouldn’t that have been the best way to confirm my identity? It would be all too easy to strip me of my clothes.
Then again... what if that wasn’t why I was taken?
I huff. That also means I can’t seduce him, not unless I want to try and explain how I got an impossible tattoo on me.
Then again, does any of this even matter? I doubt they’re doing all of this to merely ask me a few questions. They’ll strip me, sooner or later. My story has a bloody end—that’s all I know for certain. I won’t make it easy, then. They’ll need to take me kicking and screaming.
I scan the spartan room, holding a hand to my head, healing it: dark walls and floors, a simple bed, nightstand, and an empty chamber pot. I walk near the mirror on the wall—hand still placed on the center of my forehead as blue light emits—looking at my image.
Tears blur my vision, as I look fucking terrible.
Kathleen once told me that I’m pretty enough to offer myself as a concubine to a warlord—even a Zenith—if I was lucky. Now, I look like I crawled out of the ass crack of a cavern that had been engulfed in flames.
My face is utterly covered in soot, my hair a feral mess. There’s no way I’m tempting Soren, or anyone, into giving me freedom when I look like this, even if I could somehow explain the tattoo over my heart.
My lips drop into a frown, eyeing the auburn hair of my mother, and the honey-brown eyes that neither of my parents possess. I roll in my plump lips, thinking of Soren’s rough thumb touching them. My admittedly pretty, gentle face contorts to reveal a rage that I’ve buried deep.
No... I’m still Jane. And they can’t have me.
There’s a water basin on the table next to me, along with single towel. I wet it and clean my face like I’m a warrior putting on face paint, my eyes wide and listless. I even wipe my hair clean to reveal the Jane I want the world to see me as, something about the act feeling important.
Then, I cover my fist with the towel and punch the glass with an expression so incensed they’ll never have to guess where I’m from. The glass shatters, broken shards reflecting the dull candlelight of the room as they clink to the floor. I grab a large shard, turn around to stare at the bed and stab a pillow like it’s the heart of the Council themselves.
I won’t be taken like a sheep.
Even if it means destroying a perfectly fine dungeon. My blood is born of too much chaos to not make a grand statement in my departure from this world.
I’m a daughter of Skull’s Row, and if they’re forcing me to return, then this is how I will confirm that for them, since I know that’s what they’re trying to understand.
Blood, sweat, and tears mix on the fabric of the room as I destroy it.