9. Aliana #2
I could climb onto the mattress, unscrew one of the finials, and use it to bust through the stained glass. If I could get high enough. The windows have to be twenty feet off the ground.
I turn and look at the sarcophagi, wondering if I’m strong enough to move the bottoms. If I shove the lids off, they could stack like blocks. Could I lift them?
But all those options…stone scraping across the floor, glass breaking… I’d be caught before I got a pinkie finger out the window. Then there’s also the bone-melting black mist to consider.
I sigh.
“Looks like I’m stuck here. For now. ”
I turn and march back to the other side of the room, investigating. I’ll find a way to escape, I’m sure of it. It will just be a matter of time.
Hunting is all about patience. Using a bow, I have to wait for the right moment to shoot.
I’ll just wait for my moment.
To my right is an arched door. When I open it, it leads to a closet. Or an attempt at a closet. Human clothes have been tossed in a large heap on the ground. They don’t even all look like women’s clothes. Still, there’s more there than I’ve ever worn in my life.
Boots, gloves, hats with wild feathers coming out of them from an era where clothes were meant for fashion, not simply survival. There are even men’s clothes, which makes me wonder if this room belonged to someone else before me.
I debate grabbing a shirt and putting it on, but I’m a little warm after all of my panic-induced moments. And…how comfortable would anything really be over my ridiculous chastity belt?
Right now, I’m doing the best I can to ignore it, but the contrast of a soft sweater with the hard weight of the metal might just drive me nuts.
I decide against digging through the pile.
But as I go to shut the closet door, I swear I see a shirtsleeve wiggle.
Hell no.
I shove the door back open, my heart beating a little faster as I eye the heap.
Was that a mouse?
Or was it a tooth?
Mice mean nothing to me. They’re everywhere in the forest. But I’ll never be able to sleep in a room infested with teeth.
I don’t have any weapons, but I kick at the pile nonetheless.
Anger surges as my leg lashes out, and even though I connect with nothing but limp clothes, I don’t stop.
I stomp my foot and then reach down and fling clothes against the walls.
The pile turns into a fabric blizzard as all of my fear and frustration over my capture manifest and spew from my limbs, turning me into a wild, storming thing.
I fling a lone rain boot into the wall, where it smacks and deforms and resembles my heart far too much—collapsing inward and losing its shape.
When every piece of the wardrobe assembled for me has been clenched or kicked and now lies curled upon itself in a corner of the room, I stop.
I’m panting.
I peer around the room, searching carefully, focused on my task instead of the way my ribs are breaking and my lungs are contracting in silent sobs that I swallow down. I focus on finding that stupid little tooth.
Nothing moves.
I want to scream. But if I start, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop. So I clamp down on my feelings. Everything but sarcasm gets shoved aside—just like the clothes on the floor.
Sarcasm, I slip on like a scarf, flinging words into the air with an arch of my brow and pretending for a moment that I’m okay.
“Dammit. Paranoia wins again.” I head back for the door, feigning nonchalance. But I’m itching for my crossbow right now. I’d have poked so many holes in that pile of clothes it would have looked like multicolored Swiss cheese.
I wish there was something to hit. To kill.
I’ve only ever considered myself violent out of necessity.
But right now?
Violence vibrates low in my belly, like it’s the engine that fuels me and sets my limbs into motion.
I wrench open a second door to find a small closet-like space with no exterior light. Inside on the floor sit two bright orange construction buckets. A wooden plank is balanced on top of them.
What the fuck is this?
But then the smell hits me.
I lurch back and slam the door shut.
Ugh.
Makeshift bathroom. The plank must be a makeshift seat.
And it’s not even clean.
It’s already been used.
By the last slave they owned?
What happened to them, huh? Get bored of one toy…
Nope. Not even worth thinking about.
I cross my fingers and close my eyes. “I won’t be here long enough to use it.” I very much hope I’m able to keep that promise to myself.
The lock on my main door smacks against the wood, and the chain clinks and clanks as someone pulls it from the door.
A spiderweb gets caught in my throat—I can’t breathe as fear skitters up my bones and weaves a net around me.
The door creaks open, and there he is… One of the Four Terrors himself.
The monster who thinks I now belong to him.
The monster I’m going to kill.
Seven feet tall, with a brooding face that could almost pass for human if it weren’t for his blood-red eyes, tiny horns, and pointed ears.
But his chest is far too broad, his tattooed biceps are too thick, his forearms too long—they nearly touch his knees.
And behind him, a fluffy black tail trails through the air.
He says nothing as he stalks forward, exuding raw violence and predatory intent.
My feet feel stuck in quicksand. My throat dries out like a desert wind has just blown in.
I find myself frozen as he reaches out, key in hand, and gently unlocks the miniature padlock trapping one of my breasts, the back of his hand trailing deliberately over my skin as he removes the metal covering.
It’s chilly in the room. I’m scared—naturally. My nipple hardening is a completely natural response to those things.
I ignore it.
I swallow hard and avoid looking at him because standing here is currently a necessary evil. But it will soon be over. I try to ignore the goose bumps forming on my skin as his hands slide to the other breast, not touching me, but radiating enough heat that it feels like he is.
He frees the second piece of metal from my chest and then kneels right in front of me.
He pushes lightly on my thighs to make me widen them, and I have to suck in a yelp at his touch, even though it’s not rough. It’s incredibly gentle.
I grind my teeth as I widen my stance, and I deliberately tell my brain there is nothing sexual about this pose whatsoever. Nothing.
But the weight of the metal plate and chains have made my panties sag.
His huge hands slide over the top hem of my underwear, and he tugs them up in order to access the padlocks.
His large hands pull a little too much, and the hems strain against my skin in a way that sensitizes all my nerve endings.
I try to think about the ridiculous faces carved in the sarcophagi. Or the stupid expression on the unicorn tapestry. Or the stench from the bathroom.
Anything to distract me from his fingers or the way my pussy grows sensitive as the excess heat bottled up by the plate falls away and the cool air in the room filters through the fabric, stimulating my core.
I don’t look down. I don’t see what he does with the key or the metal plates. Probably tucks them into some hidden suit pocket. I stare off and think of eighty different things as he slowly stands right in between my spread legs.
One of the things I ponder is escape.
But he’s too close. Too big. I wouldn’t get a step before he grabbed me and wrapped me up in his huge arms—
A blush heats my cheeks, and I make the mistake of blinking and looking up.
The Devourer stares down at me with an intensity that makes all the webs tying me up in knots snap.
I’m not certain what it is about him.
The fact that he fucking bought me and believes he owns me.
The arrogant look on his face. How I resent the fucking power he has over my destiny.
How I had to stand here and let him manhandle me.
The fact that even though he’s not handsome, he’s huge in a way that’s absolutely magnetic.
I hate the way his forearms are so undeniably thick and veined and my eyes keep drifting to them.
Something… Something about him burrows underneath my skin and heats it up.
His very presence enrages me.
My neck warms. My thoughts bubble and boil and turn into steamy fog.
It’s foolish.
His power is so intense, he could end me with a snap of his finger, but he just shelled out a metric ton to buy me.
I wager he wants his toy for at least a night.
The violent urges I shelved a minute ago resurface. And this time, they’re frothing at the mouth.
“You fucking bastard.”
Instead of responding immediately, the Devourer stills. Those eyes on me grow as hard as rubies. And they aren’t the only thing about him that grows hard.
I don’t look down, but it’s impossible not to notice when something the size of my forearm starts to project out at me.
“Not a bastard. But you got the fucking part right.” His lips curl into a smirk. “I will be fucking you.”
Alarm. I should feel alarm. That’s what my head says. But my mouth spits out, “In your dreams.”
“In your dreams, in your nightmares, in your bed… Everywhere,” he whispers with utter confidence.
My thighs clench. But that’s just a fight-or-flight response. My body’s ready to run.
I’m not attracted to a monster.
That would be unthinkable.
Impossible.
“You won’t ever touch me,” I hiss.
I step back and launch a kick at him.
His reaction is instantaneous. Faster than I can blink, my ankle’s in his grip and he’s yanking me forward into him. His erection is hard and stiff as it bends up against my breasts—he’s so damned tall, it isn’t anywhere down near my belly. I can smell his musk.
Regrettably, it’s not terrible.
And very regrettably, I’m practically naked right now—wearing only that hideous bra and panty set—and can feel the thick heat of his dick pressing against me.
“What was that?” The Devourer’s tone drips arrogance as his long fingers circle my ankle bone.
I tense, expecting him to slide his hand up to my hips. I imagine him lifting me up so he can impale me—right here, right now.
That’s what he thinks he paid for, after all.
But he doesn’t. He holds my gaze, and even though he’s pressed up against me, the only bit of me he actively touches is my ankle.
I refuse to acknowledge how gentle his graze is.
It’s still unwanted.
So was my kick, I suppose.
But fuck, I’m already rationalizing my fucking captor’s actions.
“You are—”
“I’m called the Devourer—”
“I don’t give a fuck!” I yank my foot out of his grip, bringing it to the ground.
Instinctively, my hand grabs his dick through his pants.
I fully intend to hurt him. I squeeze and twist with all my might, trying to break his precious penis—which is so huge that my tug yanks it out of the waistband of his pants.
But my plans are foiled when all that happens is a smile crosses his face and a tiny bit of precum emerges from the tip.
“Gah!” I drop his dick like it’s burnt me, turning and retreating into my room.
“I was going to bring you to dinner, but if you want something else to eat…”
I hear a lewd thwacking sound behind me.
“GET OUT!” I bellow, cupping my hands over my ears so I don’t have to hear.
I’m trembling out of anger. That’s all. That’s the only reason my chest is blotched with a patch of red just between my breasts.
Magic.
Monsters have magic. Anything else that’s happening to my body must be the result of this fucker’s monster power.
“God, I love the sound of your scream.” He’s not deterred at all. Not by my rage or my refusal.
Is fury just his brand of foreplay?
“Screams do it for you? That’s because you clearly don’t give a shit if a woman is willing!” I yell that accusation because it seems fitting.
The sound of masturbation stops.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Fuck.
I think I just pushed too far.
But it’s true.
Except…Filia’s words ring in my ears. He’s never taken a female slave before.
Fuck that.
She works for him. I can’t trust her.
Slow and steady footsteps stalk towards me.
He’s coming.
Silently.
In a panic, I run to the closest sarcophagus and shove the lid across. The scrape of stone on stone hides that horrible, angry quiet that makes my knees quake.
I peer inside, hoping for a skull to throw at the Terror, a broken femur to stab him, something. But the inside of the coffin is clean, polished—there’s not even a speck of dust in sight.
“Fuck!” I exclaim.
That’s when he grabs me by the hair and yanks me around to face him. Only, he doesn’t look like himself anymore. Hair black as pitch has sprouted from his entire body. His teeth have grown into fangs, his nose into a snout, and he looks like a man meshed with a demonic wolf.
A growl rumbles low in his throat.
This time, my thighs clench so I don’t piss myself.
He pulls me up by my hair, and I dangle in the air like a doll, feet floating, body swaying slightly side to side. My scalp is lava, the hair taut—burning from holding up my entire body weight.
I clench my eyes shut and my teeth together, but my traitorous body lets a whimper escape because the Devourer is every bit the Terror he’s made out to be.
As soon as he hears that sound flee my throat, he lowers me to the ground. My skull pounds, my pulse singing in relief. But I only have a moment’s reprieve before he yanks a chunk of my hair and causes my eyes to fly open.
I stare at the long strip of hair lying in his hand as the Devourer backs up a step and then bounds for my door. It slams shut behind him with a force that makes the stained-glass windows behind me shake in their sills.
I blink.
I blink again.
I’m not quite certain what just happened.
Who terrorized whom just now?
Because that look he gave me just before he ran. It was twisted. Angry. But also…maybe…a tiny bit hurt.
No.
It can’t be.
My entire body sags as adrenaline escapes me, and I sink to the floor, hardly noticing when I hear the chain and lock snap back into place. I’m too far gone inside my own head. Because what I’m thinking is preposterous. Insane.
There is no way that a monster cares what I think of him.