16. Chapter Sixteen
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MORTE
B y the time the servants finish, and people filter in and out, thirty minutes have passed while I stand here, surveying the camp for a method of escape. We’re surrounded by towering mountains and thick trees, but I’d rather die out in the elements than withstand one more night of cold indifference from my mate.
The tent stands before me, a hollow refuge offering no relief from the cold that gnaws at my bones. My heart pounds so hard I’m sure it’ll split my ribs apart. I stumble to the entrance, fingers trembling as I pull the flap aside, and I’m greeted by the sight of a burly guard lounging near the center of the space.
He looks up from the blade he’s sharpening, a cruel grin spreading across his face when he sees me. "Orders from the King," he drawls, voice laced with mockery. "I’m your new shadow, little phoenix. I’ll make sure you behave." He flashes the knife, turning it over in his hands, the edge gleaming under the poor light of the fae orbs that hover around the tent’s interior.
I swallow hard as the taste of ash fills my mouth. My scrutiny lands on Az, who stands rigid on the opposite side of the tent, his back to me. He doesn’t even turn around, doesn’t acknowledge my presence. He might as well be a statue carved from ice, hollow and unfeeling.
“Nice to see you finally know your place, little phoenix,” the guard sneers, his grin growing wider as he takes in my disheveled state. He’s clearly the kind of fae who enjoys the suffering of others, and now he’s got a front-row seat to mine.
Az turns, glancing over his shoulder at the guard. His lips curl in a parody of a smile, something cold and distant that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he says, the words barely veiled disgust. “I just keep my tools in working order.”
I freeze, my breath catching in my throat as his words slice through me. Tools. Working order. Like I’m nothing more than a means to an end—a piece of equipment he’s been tasked to keep functional.
The guard laughs, a bark of approval that grates against my ears. “The king’ll be pleased.”
Az shrugs, his expression bored, like he’s discussing the weather. “I’ve learned to stop wasting my time on useless things.” His bored stare finally flits over to me, empty, as if I’m not even worth the effort.
I can’t breathe. I want to scream, to fight, to claw my way through whatever game he’s playing.
The guard shifts, his grin widening. “She’ll be begging for mercy soon enough.” His eyes gleam with a sick satisfaction, and I recoil. “King says I’m to have a turn first.”
The wind howls, shuddering the tent.
Az’s gaze snaps to the guard, his jaw tightening for a split second. He swallows it down, nodding. “You sure?” He shrugs. “Pillow Princess over there doesn’t make much noise when she’s getting dicked.”
I flinch as if he’s struck me.
The guard grins, rising to his feet and abandoning his knife on the table. A deliberate move. “Ah, then perhaps you’re not doing it right, Prince Azazel. She’ll be screaming so loud the rest of camp is going to want a ride. ”
Az saunters over to the man, sizing him up. My mate is considerably taller than this guy. “What’s your name?”
He smirks. “Lieutenant Pacey Turnable.”
Az gives a slow blink, his eyes narrowing as he looks Pacey up and down, from the spit-polished boots, up his navy slacks, and to the medals decorating his left breast pocket. It’s an odd look, when we’re all the way out here in the middle of fucking nowhere, snow blanketing the ground and whipping around outside the tent. "Lieutenant Turnable." His tone is quiet and measured. "And you're clearly aware of who I am."
Pacey's smirk falters slightly, but he stands his ground.
Az's eyes flit to me for a split second before returning to the soldier. "You're new, aren't you?" he asks, each word deceptively casual.
Pacey nods, a hint of uncertainty creeping into his expression. "Just transferred from the eastern front, sir."
Az's lips curl into a cold smile. "Then let me make something very clear, Lieutenant. That phoenix is mine. My property. My toy to break." His voice drops lower, a dangerous edge creeping in. "And I don't share my toys."
Pacey's smirk falters before he recovers himself. The guard's laugh is low, a rumble that vibrates through the small space of the tent, one that tells he’s used to dealing with the machinations of power-hungry males. “You better hope she doesn’t get too comfortable in that bed,” he taunts, eyeing me like I’m already conquered. “Wouldn’t want her getting the wrong idea about her place in all this.”
Az’s eyes lock on mine, and for a heartbeat, I swear I see something—regret, rage, desperation—but it vanishes as quickly as it appears. He tilts his head to the guard, a cruel smile curling his lips. “Trust me.” He props himself against the table. “She knows exactly where she stands.”
And with that, the last piece of my hope crumbles to dust.
“Stay and watch, or leave, it makes no difference to me. But I have my orders.” Pacey smirks. “Sir,” he tacks on at the end .
Az’s eyes flash, and a muscle twitches in his jaw. For a moment, the tent seems to darken, shadows creeping in at the edges.
Before he can respond, the guard continues. “Any deviation from my orders, and I’m to report to the king personally.” He takes a seat, stretching his arms over his head and locking his hands behind him. Eyes swinging to me, he gives his lap a pat. “Have a seat.”
I stare at Az, anger and betrayal burning in my chest. My words come out hushed, trembling with rage. “Don’t let him do this.”
Azazel’s eyes flick to mine for just a second before returning to the guard, face impassive. “I said I keep my tools in working order. But I didn’t say they’d work for you.”
“I know how to break them in just fine,” Pacey taunts, eyes not leaving mine. “Now come here and sit, before I make you crawl.”
He reclines, unabashed of the erection tenting his pants.
Magic tugs at my limbs, dragging me forward, even as my mind screams to resist. Every step feels like a betrayal of my will, my soul clawing to break free, but the invisible leash pulls tighter. My legs wobble, yet they betray me, lowering me inch by inch onto the bastard’s lap. My spine stiffens, the only act of rebellion I can still manage, though the rage in my eyes blazes brighter than any fire my magic could summon.
“You fucking asshole!” My scream rips through the tent, my voice shaking with anguish and venom. I thrash against the spell’s hold, my fists trembling at my sides. “Az, you son of a bitch! Don’t do this to me! You love me!” The words are raw, each one scraping against my throat as I hurl them at his retreating back.
Az doesn’t even pause. His silhouette moves toward the tent’s exit, his shoulders drawn tight, his head slightly bowed, but he doesn’t look back. Not once.
“You coward! You fucking coward!” I spit, rage and heartbreak twisting into one jagged howl. “Don’t you dare walk out of here! Don’t you fucking dare!” My chest heaves as sobs choke my voice, but I keep shouting, even as my body trembles, even as the bastard guard’s filthy magic forces me to sink further into the humiliation of his lap.
Az reaches the threshold, the flap of the tent rippling as he pushes it aside. The guard’s hand brushes my thigh, and bile rises in my throat.
“Azazel!” I scream his name like it’s a lifeline, a desperate plea to the man I thought would never abandon me. My voice cracks, the sound raw, but it doesn’t deter him. He doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t hesitate.
And then he’s gone.