Chapter 9
Everything hurts.
My head, my hands, my neck... all of it.
My crusted eyes beg to open, but I sew them shut as it all rushes back to me. That familiar sensation of rope binding my arms momentarily weakens my resolve; I feel like a sailor anchoring my ship near an island surrounded by steep cliffs. Will shore come to me? Or am I destined to succumb to the stormy waters until they drown me?
I make a wish to whatever gods exist that Kathleen manages to escape and get far away from this place. Surely, Kathleen and her gran will find refuge somewhere .
“You’re obviously awake,” Soren’s voice penetrates my somber reprieve. He has an odd effect on me when he speaks; if I weren’t bound and afraid for my life, I’d find the roughness of it rather enticing.
“Are you watching me like a vulture?” I ask, eyes still closed. Even now, I simply can’t let go of my snarky side.
It’s all one really has left when facing the void, alone.
“Yes, actually, I am.” I hear something heavy being set on a nearby table. “Do you feel better after that outburst?”
There’s an edge of impatience in his tone, like he pities himself for having to be stuck with me.
“Oh, clearly,” I counter, coughing, my dry voice cracking. “Barely feel a damn thing.”
With an exasperated sigh, I finally open my eyes and squint; my head pounds like nails are piercing through my skull.
“You’re a mad woman.”
I groggily look around, the need to drink consuming me. “I’m thirsty.”
I stare out one of the windows, eyeing the moon-lit clouds. Tonight was supposed to be simple, consisting of tending to the injured coal miners leaving their day shift... maybe even enjoy a hot meal of lamb stew.
Taking shallow breaths, I loathe the way the smell of charred wood clings to me. Screams echo in my memory, the heat terrifying to recall, guilt choking me—No. I need to lock that away. It won’t help me now.
Soren strides over with heavy steps. I’m disoriented on my side, only his thighs visible in my view. His virile, veined hand grabs the rope that binds me and sits me up straight. I groan from the pain in my throat, the scratchy twine pinching and digging into my skin.
I’m a fucking mess.
I can see the room better now, however; we’re in a much nicer bedroom with a massive four-poster bed, draped in crimson velvet curtains. The bedposts are carved with intricate designs of anchors, an adjacent large hearth emitting a warm glow. A bay window is partially curtained, reminding me of a captain’s quarters on a ship.
Ships.
Everything in here reminds me of a life that’s a ghost to me now—I really am being forced to return.
My lip quivers as every wound reopens in my soul. Bury it. Numb it all. It’s the best way. Those feelings belong in the grave of my childhood.
Breathing deeply, I observe Soren—most of his exterior armor is removed, revealing a simpler layer beneath his battle-worn exterior. He pours a pitcher of water into a wooden cup before bringing it to me, placing it at my lips. I gorge on the offering, water dribbling down my face. Soren sets the empty cup on a weathered end table and walks away, not saying a damn word.
This man confuses me. Why did he choke me out instead of killing me? Does the Council need me that badly? And why can I not look at him without losing my damn mind?
You know why, Jane.
When I was a younger girl, I used to dream of marrying a man that could slay all of my enemies. My father ensured I knew his standards—any man not willing, or capable, of slicing his way through an army to save me, was beneath me.
It’s a rather fucked up requirement, but anyone would understand if they knew who my father was.
That command feels so empty now, as he failed to save Mother…
I had to stab her killer in the neck, his blood having bathed me in warm spurts as she died behind me.
Grinding my teeth, I’m infuriated at the swift deterioration of my resolve. I was doing so well at keeping all these emotions at bay, and now they move rampantly within my heart. And all the while, this asshole mercenary removes the rest of his armor while the dwindling flames in the hearth gently crackles. It’s almost peaceful, like my crumbling life is just another day for him.
Those dexterous fingers move with finesse, untying his connecting pieces. His black hair hangs in his unnecessarily handsome face.
What an annoying bastard. He gets to exist as my captor, living a lofty life, while I smell like charred bones.
When Soren removes his vest, there’s nothing left but a tunic and his leather pants. Even his shoes and socks are removed.
And then he pulls the tunic off.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice unrecognizably scratchy.
He ignores me as I confusingly devour his body from a distance. Soren has thick valleys of rippling muscles, deep scars laid out in mismatched patterns. One of his arms is a collage of ink that reaches his hand, rings still adorning his fingers. Once his back is straight, I see the black tattoo down his spine like someone took three quills and held them steady, pulling down until they reached just above his sacrum. His rough voice fills the room as he drops the tunic on the table, “I’m going to sleep, and not with my armor on.”
“And I’m sitting right here,” I counter. “You’re just stripping in front of me.”
He flashes that pale gaze right at me, something unsettling in how deeply it penetrates. “Watching is your own choice.”
I harden my glare. “What about me ?” I ask, wriggling as if to show I obviously can’t sleep while being bound. “I can barely move, and my shoulder is aching. Let alone whatever you did to my neck. And what if I need to piss?”
He thankfully keeps those pants on and nears the bed, bare feet on wood. “You pissed yourself when you passed out, so I doubt you need to void your bladder any time soon. I watered you. You’re good until morning,” he says, sitting on one side of the bed, stretching his body in gentle movements.
I can’t stop staring at the way that scarred man moves, how I can see all the rippling cords of strength whenever he twists or turns. And that black and gold skull tattoo right on his chest, denoting he’s a Zenith…
The stupid fucking Zenith.
“So, is this the state I’ll be in until we get to the Council?” I croak, still fighting for my dignity, not surprised I pissed myself based on the disgusting moisture below. “Can I at least look presentable when taken to my death? And not be covered in piss?”
“I gave you a nice, cushioned room in that cellar, one that had a water basin so you might clean the ash off of you, but you destroyed it,” he replies, narrowing his eyes. “And I lost my patience when I spotted that scar on your wrist. Especially when you headbutted me. I really didn’t think you’d follow through. First person in a while to land a surprise hit.”
Sure enough, there’s a small mark on his forehead where the skin has split at the eyebrow. I didn’t even remember making contact with him, not with how much the blade hurt when it sliced me.
The scar on my wrist ... that wretched mark has ruined everything.
“It was an accident,” I mumble. “The scar that you saw was just a dumb accident I got as a kid sneaking around where I shouldn’t be...”
The pleading nearly hurts, especially when I so badly want to tell him he deserves the head injury, but I refrain when a coldness returns to his eyes; he doesn’t believe a word I said.
I admit, the scar doesn’t look good. Access to the naprese forge can’t be reached even by the stealthiest of us.
Someone let me in. I don’t honestly remember who it was, the tea I drank beforehand disorienting my memory. But I never could have just wandered or snuck in.
We both know that.
A childish desire to cry gets lodged in my throat when all I want is to free my hands. Being bound makes everything feel... it’s a dishonorable way to leave this world. “I can heal your eyebrow,” I offer, hoping he takes the bait.
“Would require freeing your hands, love, and I’m not doing that.” He leans over, licking his fingers so he can pinch out the candle on his nightstand, the dwindling fire our only source of light. “Unless you tell me the truth about how you got that scar.”
“I just told you it was an accident,” I plead once more with my lie.
He lifts the comforter and slides in like he’s a normal fucking person and not a renowned killer. “Because that’s not vague at all.”
I grunt, trying to concoct a story that I can easily sell to him, but I can’t muster anything. My mind is worn down, and so is my body. “Can I at least get a blanket?” I quietly ask.
He groans, those massive arms outside the covers and resting on the bed as he stares at the ceiling. “You’re a stubborn mule.”
“I’m not a fucking mule.”
“That’s exactly what a mule would say.”
I nearly scream until the mere thought makes my throat ache. “Why am I even in this room with you?” I grind out, annoyed by every breath he takes. I’m not even sure what’s holding my sanity together.
Pure spite and survival, probably.
“You have a naprese scar on your wrist. Even if you told me the truth, you’re not leaving my sight. Not until I know everything .”
Groaning, I concede to that argument. He then has the audacity to lick his lips, close his eyes, and lay there like I’m not even here. My listless gaze drops to the floor, then to the ropes that bind me.
I wiggle my body, grating the rough twine against my arms as I try to pull free. I’m bound so tight my skin will have imprints for days, possibly bruised. Looking through my lashes, I consider biting him in his sleep… right at the jugular.
I know that’s an idiotic decision, even as I consider it. Killing a Zenith will put an entirely different bounty on my head, and I can only afford that if I’m close enough to the ocean to ride a ship far fucking away from this place—
He speaks, and I hold my breath, hoping to hear an ounce of pity in his voice. But instead, it’s merely a threat. “If you move anywhere other than to that couch, I’ll chain you real nice and tight to it after gagging and blindfolding you.”
My thoughts drip with murder… but I’m beat. Physically, emotionally, and mentally.
Refusing to answer him, I manage to lie down with what little movement I can make, nearly falling off the couch as I do since I can’t brace with my arms, ensuring I’m facing the room, not willing to give him my back.
It’s so gentle and quiet as I lay in silence with Soren, the fire casting long shadows on the bed that the monster sleeps in. I can’t see him from this angle, other than that he’s a giant mound moving underneath the covers when he turns over. Whether or not he sleeps remains a mystery; will he actually let me lie here as he slumbers away?
I should be worried that I’m only feet away from one of the most established killers of the Balar Coasts, but this silence offers a surprising reprieve—I get to properly consider my next steps. It seems like Soren will be my ultimate obstacle until I get to the Council, and I can either affix myself to him or find a way to evade him.
The way every ounce of him went cold makes me nervous, a reminder that if permitted, he’ll kill me without thought.
Wouldn’t that be for the best, though? I either convince Soren to somehow let me go—which, realistically, will be impossible—or I die before setting foot inside the city of murderers to preserve the oath I made.
Prophetic warnings from a siren are like words etched in stone…
Once, after fleeing Skull’s Row, a siren named Melona spoke to me with foretelling... ‘ Be careful, young human. If the Council ever learns, they will want your blood all over their walls... never let them have you, or return to Skull’s Row without paying your debt, or hundreds, if not thousands, will die. Don’t ask why… just know your untimely presence will ruin everything.’
The debt I owe her was never clarified, either. I just assumed, as a kid, someone would eventually find me and explain what my debt was. Until years passed, and my isolation solidified. Her existence became lost to time in my head, seeming as if the whole memory was something my young mind conjured up. How can I possibly manage to heed what she told me? At this rate, I’m going back, one way or another.
So, what if I tell Soren the smallest detail? What if he lets me become his concubine, or hells, anything ? I’m ready to die, while simultaneously not wanting to die if I can avoid it.
My heart races as reality sinks in.
The images of Coalfell villagers dying are real—my throat constricts as I suddenly want to cry. Not right now, Jane. You owe Melona. You have to heed her warning.
Soren… yes, the fucking annoying man sleeping only a few feet away from me. He’s the one in the way of my freedom. I admit that I’m worried my heart is too broken to filter through the complexities of my past. What if he can pick me apart better than I’m prepared for?
Does that even matter?
The minute Soren learns my father was a Zenith, one that fell from grace and disappeared...
This is going to be a rough few days.
* * *
I awaken when the sun brightens the room, squinting and wishing for the darkness to return. Daybreak means we will be on the road today, beginning our journey to Skull’s Row.
I haven’t been there in over ten years.
My eyes widen when I recall there’s supposed to be a mercenary somewhere in this room. Soren sleeps soundly as if my impending doom doesn’t bother him in the slightest.
I stare at him. How odd is it to see a Zenith so non-threatening? One that had cut my throat, choked me out, and bound me with no blanket while I’m covered in dry piss?
A gnawing instinct warns me that I’ve only witnessed the spear’s tip of this man’s anger and power.
The ache in my throat becomes too much and I cough—
His eyes shoot open, staring right at me like a dog that heard movement outside the home.
“Sorry,” I grumble. I’m not really sorry, but that primal look when he thinks he has to go into action is enough to make me apologize without thinking.
He rolls his eyes and deeply inhales on the soft, lovely bed. At least, I imagine it’s such a thing, especially with this rock-hard couch underneath me. He stretches, those flexing muscles begging for a neglected part of my body to stare longer…
He sits up, running a hand through his hair, a light stubble on his face. Without all his armor on, he’s undeniably tantalizing; at least to a messed-up woman like me who apparently prefers savage killers to simple farmers.
I look away, not out of embarrassment, but because I know I look terrible in this state. Then I frown, my shame confusing me even more.
He paces the room, silence binding us once more, save for his footsteps and the sound of him pouring water into a cup. He nears me, sitting me up like before, his movements rough. I wince, everything aching so greatly that my eyes water. When he presses the cup to my lips, I greedily drink, eyeing the raised scars of his muscled stomach.
So many women from my childhood sought after these Zenith, desperate to fill their wombs with these men’s children, and even more acclaimed—to own their hearts.
Aside from their title, there was nothing attractive about some of those men.
This one, though... I’m not blind, and it pisses me off, my body releasing itself into the reckless seas of imagination, eager to know what it’s like to touch a person like Soren, and to have someone like him let me touch them. To see those cold, calculated eyes grant temporary reprieve, and then for those rough hands to take what he’s owed... what I’m owed, being the daughter of his kind.
Gods, I’m fucked up.
I’m just as bad as those women always trailing father’s shadow, none of them aware he was married... they all just thought I was a kid seeking glory as I followed him.
When I’m “watered“, as Soren puts it, he goes over to a table with a bowl and mirror, sitting down on a stool.
“I have to piss,” I mutter. “And I’m starving.”
“I’ll have Anya take you in a moment. She will feed you,” he replies, lathering his face in white shaving cream. Apparently, the asshole has to shave before I’m allowed any relief.
“Can I please not be bound? For a moment ?” I ask in futility.
Soren raises a brow, still looking at himself in the mirror. “Do I have to explain why that’s not happening?”
No, no he doesn’t. I’d take that blade as soon as his guard was down and stab him in the eyes, or maybe his heart. Yes, his heart would be best. It would feel good to watch the life leave his gaze as he realizes he lost.
Feeling absolutely useless with only my imagination as my weapon, I stare out the window, knowing that Skull’s Row is only a week’s ride from here.
There’s not much time.
“If I give you a hint, what does that get me? Surely, there’s something I can say that can at least grant me a few moments to scratch my face.”
He looks at me in the mirror, pausing with the blade at his chin. “Depends on how big that hint is.”