Chapter 10
Jane hasn’t answered me, and instead, peers back out the window. She’s covered in blood, dirt, and grime, her determination frequently overpowering exhaustion, those honeyed eyes burning with an intensity lit from the same wick as when I found her in the dungeon room.
I continue to shave my face, wondering what the fuck to do with her.
I’ve not survived all these years by believing the words of strangers—her story of that scar being an accident means very little to me. No one can enter our citadel without proper clearance. All of our soldiers know every face and name, and we have sensors .
The higher towers of the Council are notoriously difficult for thieves, let alone the disastrous fate of whoever attempts to steal from us. The forge for naprese gold is deep within the cliffs, and only the family or wives of a Zenith can go near the blacksmith that smelts our gold, the ore requiring very delicate magic to get it just right. The metal turns translucent when fire is held up to it, so no one can mimic its purity.
She knows someone important. Important enough to get everyone to look away.
Someone at my level.
Jane continues to stew in her mind, and I don’t have all fucking day. I do want to know who and what she is before we get there. I may owe some loyalty to the Council, but it’s a selfish one.
I wouldn’t mind robbing the Council of spiking her head if it means she makes a good pet on any upcoming pillages, sitting pretty at my side, able to heal my wounds. I may even be open to fucking her until she’s begging to come on my cock.
Keeping her alive has to be worth my time, though, which means I need to know everything . Anything less is a liability. It will take an immense amount of convincing the Council to keep her if that’s what I want to do, but I know I can do it.
I’m their manipulator for a reason.
I sigh and say, “Ask me for a favor, and I’ll tell you what I need in order to grant that favor.”
“I want to heal myself,” she says without missing a beat.
“Give me the hint, then,” I reply, rinsing the blade. “A real one. Something to indicate how you got that ,” I nod to her useless wrists, “close to the Zenith.”
“I wasn’t born in that village. In Coalfell,” she quickly explain.
I don’t even bother looking at her. “No shit. Try again.”
I swear I hear a chuckle and latch my gaze on her through the mirror, catching a flicker of a smile on her pretty face.
What the fuck is going on with me? I don’t usually feel bad for captives. Especially not ones taken for the Council—usually they’re just as corrupt as me. But there’s something sad about the way she’s covered in blood, tears, piss, and fresh wounds, while bound and smiling at my comment, that makes her seem pitiful. Not in a way where she’s pathetic, but just... unfortunate. Like perhaps this isn’t the worst moment she’s been through.
What a waste of such beauty and wit. She’s got scars from deep in the heart of Skull’s Row, which confirms to me that the Council will no doubt kill her for whatever treason she committed to be that close without permission. She’s going to have to make it worth my time if I’m going to stick my neck out for her.
Jane rolls through the options in her mind, her lips wordlessly moving until she says, “I... I may have been born in Skull’s Row. In the Silver District.”
I nearly cut my neck. “You fucking what now?”
I had suspected her origins as being from Skull’s Row, but not the Silver District. That’s where extended family of the Zenith live—I turn to face her, eyeing the bound rope, right at her heart. “What’s between your tits?”
“The fuck?” she asks, frowning, her tone tightening in agitation.
“On. Your. Chest.” I articulate very slowly.
She blanches.
My blood runs hot. I wipe the cream off my face and stand, facing her. “Show me,” I demand.
“No,” she mutters, barely audible.
“Or what? You’ll fight me?” I have to confirm the truth. There’s no way she’d have that because that would mean... well, who the fuck is she? Just who do I have in my hands?
She looks frustrated enough to ignite into flames. “I just... I tried to live away from it all. I lived in that village for thirteen years. I stayed away. I left them alone . Why is this haunting me now? They didn’t seem to care for the last decade.”
A cornered animal.
I bet her heart is pounding against that rope, her anxiety nearly leaking out of her eyes that flit between frayed emotions. I can play gentle if I need to, especially to get this answer. “You let me look, and you can get a warm bath, heal yourself, and eat a hot meal.”
She scoffs, looking at me like I’m the crazy one. “You’re fucking with me.”
Jane’s warm eyes are frenzied, her shoulders leaning forward as if she might charge me. Nearing the red couch, I slowly crouch down, eye level with her as her honeyed gaze tracks every movement of mine. “You’ll know when I’m fucking with you, Jane.”
Her cheeks redden; I refrain from smiling. Her pretty, grimy little head went straight down the drain like rainwater.
I can’t make heads or tails of this woman. She’s vicious enough to attack a room and smear it with her own blood and challenge a Zenith, but blushes when I make a comment like that?
“I want a hot bath. Not a warm one. And I want to soak in it,” she blurts out.
The corner of my lips betray me as they almost quiver into an actual smile, the surprising emotion frustrating me. “Deal.”
Her nostrils flare, her frantic eyes moving all over me. Then, she gives another, single nod. “Take off this rope, then, and I’ll show you.”
Leaning in, I untie it, watching her closely. She breathes slowly, staring right at the ground. When the binding is loose, she hotly sighs, her gaze boring into me— “I’m not removing my shirt, either. Just lifting it.”
Many replies nearly slip off my tongue, but she’s like a rare, feral animal—cautious steps are required in order to approach. I sit across from her in the other chair, staring intensely at her. “I’ll sit here while you show me.”
With determination and no shame, she scratches everything that must have itched but couldn’t reach. When she’s done with that, she breathes heavily, staring at the hearth that smolders from a dead fire. She turns her head like she’s stuck in an internal monologue.
Then, the bold cunt stares right at me as she lifts her tunic to the center of her chest. My cock twitches at her daring personality, made worse as I stare at the bare, smooth skin of her stomach.
My morning wood rises to press against my leather pants, wondering if I should fuck her for a quick release, as sort of an interview as my traveling-healer-concubine. I don’t control the pleasant surprise in my eyes, my brows arching tall, the underside of her round breasts revealing themselves—my blood stills.
I stare at a black and gold tattoo of a Zenith skull, right over her heart.
I’m on my feet before I realize it, reaching out to touch the tattoo. Jane braces herself, stiffening her back; she understands I have to feel it to believe it.
I’ll have to fuck a whore after this. A feisty, auburn-haired whore. Squatting down, I run my finger over her warm, soft skin. The black ink feels normal, as expected, but the gold throughout is rough like sandpaper. Swiftly moving to the hearth, I grab a small burning piece of wood, returning to Jane who hasn’t moved; she watches me like she’s plotting out the most difficult escape plan.
Holding the flame close enough to make her nostrils flare from the heat, her eyes flash with fear in a way that reminds me of men reliving days they’d rather never see again.
Her village…
It doesn’t matter. I see what I need, which is a translucency manifesting in the golden design, her skin appearing as if clear ink carved itself out of her skin once the heat is close enough.
I toss the wood back into the fire, embers spewing out as it crashes into the others, the solid gold design returning once her skin is room temperature.
Once I’m standing back in front of her, I nearly reach out to grab her neck and hold her still, to stare into those eyes until the truth reveals itself... but I hesitate when I glance down and see the blends of deep red and purple bruises from being choked out, an even uglier, festering line on the side where my blade cut.
The unusual hesitation to not hurt her unnerves me. So, I back away before the thought can linger, Jane lowering her shirt. “So... the mystery of your identity begins. You’re too easy to knock out to be a Zenith yourself—” her jaw drops in offense, like she might rise to hit me “—so either the widow of one, or the child.”
It still makes no sense, even as I say that. None of it does. Daughters are never branded. Wives have their own marking, different from the one Jane carries, laced with the color red to denote the blood that will be spilled if any harm comes her way. Only one woman has ever become a Zenith, but that’s because she’s the storm incarnate.
So where does Jane fit?
“It’s personal,” Jane mutters, raising her hands to heal her neck. Blue light emits as she closes her eyes, no doubt relieved to feel the pain leave her.
I pace the room, needing to connect these dots. Every detail in this space that’s crafted for luxury feels foreign now—extravagant wood carvings, gilded knobs, lush red velvet… the style belongs to a collection of killers that owe each other the bare minimum. The Zenith are a means to an end for me, not my life’s dedication.
What do I owe them now? Do I deliver Jane without question? Clearly, some of them knew she had this or they wouldn’t have sent me, and yet they didn’t tell me. Peel her layers back and decide what to do after. Flashing my gaze at her, I ask, “How did you get that scar on your wrist?”
She sighs with futility, head slightly craned back, hands wrapped around her slender neck. “I got the sear when I got the tattoo. It was rushed. I don’t remember much, because I wasn’t coherent when it happened.”
Good enough for now. “How old are you?”
“In my mid-twenties,” she says, huffing as she peeks through her lashes and catches me glaring right at her. “Fine, I’m twenty-five summers.”
I think on that, trying to piece together a timeline. She’s almost a decade younger than me. “Are you a child bride?” I question, hating that aspect of our world but everything has to be considered. Even then, the tattoo is still wrong, as it’s not a bride’s tattoo; but this entire picture is also wrong.
Do our rules even apply when trying to unravel the secrets of Jane?
“No. I’m not married. Never was.” She doesn’t look at me, but everything about her seems to tell the truth.
“So, if you’re not married then it’s a father that branded you, or as good as…” I pace more, never taking my eyes off of her. “Whoever your daddy is no longer belongs to the Council, I wager. Or else they wouldn’t want you in this manner. He’d have threatened to kill me if I so much as ruffled your hair... so a dead parent? There’s only a handful of Zenith that have died or disappeared in the last two decades. And why would the Council want you for that ?” I nod to her wrist, thinking of the blue ink etched onto her skin. “And whose wife was a healer?”
The healing line is a maternal magic passed onto daughters. Jane is no bastard with the black and gold skull mark between those perfect breasts… so her mother was someone that was married to a Zenith, and a healer at that.
“Should I start calling you inquisitor?”
I smirk. “At least it’s clear why you have so many thorns...”
I can only think of two Zenith that were significant enough to warrant such a drastic response that requires sending me to collect her, but both would be impossible. One of them was forced to be a eunuch right at puberty—so incapable and too young to breed—and the other never married. No records of children or a wife; not even a concubine. Some thought he just preferred men.
But even then, his child would never receive the mark without a record of it, and I can’t recall anything.
So, who is her father? Who broke all these damn rules and got away with it? What was the purpose?
I consider gauging her reactions.
“Charles Ritter,” I say, wanting to see if the names spur any reaction if said without warning. Jane’s only movement is to clench her fists, staring right at me. “Marcus Harrow.”
“Is that how you sneeze, or something?” she asks, raising her brows.
My scowl quivers as I nearly laugh—she blushes and then looks infinitely angry at such a response. My blood runs hot in so many ways that it interferes with my concentration.
“No... those are two Zenith that disappeared within the last two decades.” I stop my pacing and stand to squarely face her. “When did you get the tattoo?”
Her eyes vibrate back and forth as she looks into mine, a thousand emotions tying her tongue. I can’t deny I’m entirely fascinated by her. The thought of surrendering her to the Council seems so boring now. Almost wrong.
“That’s as far as this goes,” Jane says, standing. “Now I want breakfast. And a hot bath. Don’t forget that part.”
“You are bossy.”
“What I am is hungry, and disgusting. In so many ways...” she shakes her head in bafflement.
My gaze trails over her, very slowly, observing every detail as if she’s new. So many things run through her head... it’s almost difficult to discern the emotions that ensnare her the most.
Jane’s not the only secret holder. I can feel things others can’t and read their emotions in ways against nature. A magic of my own perhaps, one that the Council utilizes when seeking out the truth. There’s very few out there like me.
In Jane’s heart, on top of every piece of anxiety, rage, and fear sits a desire she can’t shake–she wants me, and she hates herself for it.
It honestly amuses the fuck out of me that out of all the things to enrage her, it’s her begrudging attraction to her captor that has her mind spinning like it’s caught in a cyclone.
Because I’m a mad fucker that can’t stop himself, I near this woman until I’m close enough to lean into her ear, wanting to watch her squirm. She admittedly doesn’t smell great. She has endured way more than most women—or men—can handle.
For a moment, I register how it’s not intelligent for me to feel anything other than indifference for Jane. I respect very few in this world, but the way she’s handling herself now is impressive.
Right now, a thoughtless temptation draws me to her, ready for her to hit me in this proximity as I speak into her ear, my lips grazing on her skin, “I can feel you desperately fighting what you want—” I grin, eager to see her fire flare, looking at the wall behind the couch she stands in front of “—There’s no shame in wanting my cock, Jane.”
“You mother —” she aggressively places her small hands on my chest, pushing with as much force as she can, even pounding hard enough to take my breath away; I deflect her, all the while pushing her down onto the couch. I lodge a thigh between her legs, one of my hands resting on the top of the couch and the other free, as if threatening that I can use it to knock her out if I so need to.
I ease my weight down, just slightly. Her hair is spread all over the cushion beneath her, warm eyes seething.
“Don’t get mad at me for that. I’m not wrong,” I say.
An internal heat rolls off of her like steam from a dragon. Something about me pisses her off in ways she can’t understand.
Maybe pushing her will help break the shell that hides who she really is. I always see—and feel—the most of her when she’s like this.
Her silence makes sense when she throws a kick that barely misses contact, eliciting a sinister laugh from me while moving to the door of the room, knocking on it five times. “Come fetch her.”
“You’re a cunt,” she grinds out. I can tell that words much more venomous than those nearly pour out of her, but she knows better than to run her mouth before she gets her bath.
Aside from her deep hatred of me, all I feel is her longing to bathe . I stride back to my seat to finish shaving. Jane bolts to her unbalanced feet, eyeing my neatly laid armor and weaponry on a table.
I say, “Go ahead. Take whatever you want, love. Although I don’t recommend using my sword to stab me. Doubt you can lift it for more than a few seconds.” I lather shaving cream back on my face, staring into the mirror. “A fair warning—I’ll know before you grab anything, to which I’ll use this razor blade to chop off whatever touches my shit.”
Sensing others means I can always feel when someone is about to attack, and how. Jane only successfully headbutted me because I just didn’t think she’d actually do it.
I snicker to myself; how wrong I was there. No, she’s not dull enough to be that predictable.
She doesn’t have long to think about what she wants to do before Anya enters the room, the heavy door groaning as it opens. I eye them both through the mirror. “Tie the rope around Jane’s neck as you take her outside. Don’t let her linger. Bring her back to me immediately. She talks to—and touches—no one.”
With one last menacing look from Jane, Anya pulls her from the room. I lower my chin to observe my blade when I hear them on the stairs, the steel catching light from a nearby window. Will Jane be more fun if she doesn’t fear her death so much? Life rarely sends such mysteries my way, all wrapped up in such a delicate, thorny bow. One thing’s for certain—riling her up has been the best method of communication.
Perhaps I can enjoy playing with my captive before returning her.
“Little Jane,” I say to myself, tying my hair back into a low mess of a bun. “What else do you have hidden for me to uncover?”