Chapter 11 Lazarus
eleven
Lazarus
Pitiful.
Pathetic.
The Lamb quivers on the ground, shivering in the night air that seeps through the hole above him.
His teeth clack as he tries to tuck his feet up beneath his stained robe, bending his knees and scrunching his body into a ball as he tries to find warmth.
When his attempt fails, he lets loose a soft noise of despair that finds me where I lie on my mattress, wrapped in a blanket trying to sleep.
I’m cold too, but I’m not making a big deal of it as he is, and it’s wearing on my last nerve.
He goes silent for a moment, and I close my eyes, thinking he is done with his fussing, only to hear another sad noise escape from the corner of the room.
I’m never going to get to sleep if he keeps carrying on as he is.
“Stop it,” I command, yawning.
“I’m cold,” he whispers. “My robe is still damp. I’m sorry.”
And the cold air is probably making it feel even worse against his chilled skin.
A pang of something shoots through me that I hardly recognize.
Sympathy? Maybe, but I don’t have space inside me for sympathy for this Lamb, so I’ll call it frustration instead.
I can hear him moving about on the floor, his body scraping against the wood beneath him as he tries to find warmth that he will not get.
Perhaps putting him beneath the open hole in the roof was a poor choice. I had not considered that the cold would make him insufferable. He is my very first captive, after all.
With a sigh, I push myself off the mattress, rising to my feet and dropping the blanket to the ground.
I stretch my body out, muscles aching and pulling a bit as I do so, the cold air sinking into my naked skin as the Lamb watches.
I can feel his eyes on me, and I imagine he is scanning my body as he did during the rains, though the moment I look his way to let him know I have spotted him, he quickly turns his head to the floor.
I finish stretching, then grab my axe from beside the door before heading over to the corner he occupies.
There is only one way to solve this issue, and I hope this isn’t a mistake when the sun rises.
The Lamb cries out as I stalk over to him, looming over his shivering body and staring into his wide, fearful eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he squeaks, lifting his bound hands to cover his face. “Don’t hurt me.”
I grab the rope and swing my axe, cutting it away from the post. Gripping the frayed end tight in my fist, I give it a yank. “Come.”
The Lamb scrambles to his feet as I head back for my mattress, bringing him with me.
I drop the axe onto the ground, then yank the rope hard, causing him to stumble forwards, his chest bumping my back.
I catch a hint of the soggy cloth that rests on his shoulders and turn, allowing him a moment to scramble backwards away from me.
“Ditch the robe,” I demand.
“What?”
“I’m not sleeping beside you while you’re wearing that wet thing. Get rid of it.”
He shakes his head, stepping back again and reaching his hands up to grip the robe tight. “No.”
“Want to go freeze to death in the corner? I’ll put you back beneath the hole again, I swear. I’m trying to be nice here.”
“No,” he whispers, word trembling out of him to match the way his body moves.
“For fuck’s sake, Lamb. I’ll cut it off if you don’t take it off.”
He shakes his head again, eyes wide and terrified as he clings to the cloth that covers him. “It is a sin to look upon the Lamb in the flesh.”
“Been there, done that,” I spit back, small spirals of fury rising inside me. “You forget I spent fifteen years staring at Lamb cock. Strip, or I will strip you.”
“What?” the Lamb sputters, eyes filled with confusion and something I can’t quite place. Worry? Concern? I don’t even recognize these things anymore, but what he is showing me could be either of those. “Fifteen years of what?”
My stomach curls and twists, head spiraling a bit as he stares at me with more concern than anyone from Bright Haven has ever given me.
I don’t wish for it. I am not a thing to be pitied.
I am Lazarus. I snarl in response to his offering of compassion.
“That sounds like a question. Are you giving up breakfast?”
“No! No question. Breakfast.”
I scowl, looking down at his robe expectantly.
Shaking, trembling even more so than he did when he was beneath the open hole in the roof, The Lamb bends to lift his robe.
His fingers shiver as he lifts the hem, exposing his legs, his stomach, his chest. With a small whimper, he pulls it over his head and closes his eyes, letting it dangle from his bound hands, for he has done all he can to remove it.
The robe covers his groin from view, but he curls in on himself as if meaning to hide as much of himself as he can from me.
He can keep it there. I can afford one kindness this evening, I suppose, and let the Lamb keep whatever dignity he has left for the time being.
I grip the rope tight in my hand and then crawl onto the mattress.
The Lamb comes as I pull him, crawling onto the bed after me because he has no choice.
I tie the rope to the beam beside my bed, realizing that he has even less leeway than he did before but not caring much about that.
Warmth versus the little extra freedom he had seems like an okay trade to make.
“This is your new place, Lamb,” I comment, moving out of the way so he can lie down. “Here you will stay until the day I choose to kill you.”
He nods, curling up on the mattress at the very edge that bumps against the wall. His body trembles, and I know he is still cold, but soon our warmth will heat the blanket, I’m sure. I adjust it and throw it over both of us, ensuring we are covered to the very bottom of our feet.
“Sleep well, Lamb.”
“Okay,” he whispers, voice small and terrified as I fall asleep with a smile on my face.
I wake in the morning on my back, a soft weight pressed against my side.
Blinking, I tilt my head down to see the Lamb, snuggled into my shoulder, his face pressed against my upper arm.
His jaw is slack, mouth open in his sleep, and his beautiful eyelashes resting on his cheeks.
A soft snore rises from between his lips, and I can feel the scratch of the rope that holds his hands together pressed against my hip.
I grin and roll over on my side, his head falling from my shoulder and resting on the pile of clothes I use as a pillow.
He grumbles softly, but does not wake. We are face to face now, resting, and I am captured by his eyelashes once more, as I was the first night I saw him.
They are long and beautiful, dark where they rest against his pale skin.
I reach a fingertip out and gently brush them, careful not to disturb his sleep.
I feel nothing against my skin, but he grumbles and his eyes squeeze tight before relaxing so I know I have touched them.
He is made for touching, despite believing otherwise.
Sinful to look at, sinful to touch, yet needing both desperately.
I trail my hand down his cheek, then onto his bare shoulder. The flesh there is soft and smooth, but my touch draws goosebumps to the surface of his skin, and I grin and gently trace circles into his skin there with my fingertips.
His eyes slowly flutter open as I draw my finger down his arm, stopping as I hit the ropes wrapped at his wrists. He reels back, but there is nowhere to go, and he ends up bumping against the wall behind him.
“Lazarus,” he whispers, raising his hands and making the sign of the cross on his chest. Warding me away, for I am evil in his eyes.
I grin, watching as he swallows nervously, eyes darting from my face to my bare torso and back again. His cheeks tinge with a hint of red, and I shuffle a bit closer on the mattress. “Hi, Lambchop. You got awfully close and personal last night. Makes me wonder what you were dreaming of.”
“You, burning in the lake of Hell,” he retorts, scowling at me.
“How can I burn in a lake?” I laugh, shaking my head. “I think I’d be burning in a pit of fire, not water. You can dream that next time, okay?”
“I will.”
Laughter falls from my mouth as I sit up and stretch, throwing the blanket off of me with a smile.
The Lamb stays tucked up against the wall as I stand, my side facing him, but I again catch his eyes drifting up and down the length of my body.
Testing a theory, I turn and show him the entirety of me, grinning as his cheeks burn crimson and his eyes close tight.
He hates me, but he is tempted by me at the same time.
What kind of devil would I be if not here to tempt the righteous into wickedness?