11. Stage of Grief Rage #2
“How positively unremarkable,” I whispered, hating how I shivered at the intensity in his voice. “But you’re correct, for once. I find most men disappointing, and you . . . especially so.” I leveled my shiv at his masked face and then lowered it so it pointed at his crotch.
His eyes narrowed into slits as he stared down at the weapon.
“I used to think,” I said slowly, “Chriztoph the Raving enslaving us all in the platinum mines made him the most loathsome person who ever existed. But congratulations—I think you’re worse than him.”
“Ah,” he said. “My most illustrious ancestor. What a compliment. Every single wind in Antichthon trembles at his command. Thou could never understand what such power feels like.” His voice brimmed with pride.
“Was,” I corrected. “He’s dead, just like you’ll be.”
“Art thou . . . sure about that?” He slowly licked his lips, staring at my weapon and adjusting the hardness growing between his legs.
Sick, cryptic bastard.
The tops of his cheeks turned bright red, and he casually placed his hands in his pockets, tenting out his pants to hide his inappropriately timed erection. Too late. He backed away and slammed the washroom door in my face.
“I despise you,” I muttered under my breath.
“I can still hear thee.”
“Good.” Muttering expletives, I hobbled out of our room and down the hall on the sides of my feet, too stubborn not to go for my morning run. No man will make me change how I live my life.
In the hangar, I corrected course when I saw the Marshal. I shoved through Shadow Swords. They stiffened but moved aside as she gestured to let me pass, and then they fell back into position, blocking us from view of the rest of the base. Ryse caught my eyes, and I looked away.
“What do you want that can’t wait until later?” the Marshal asked.
“I need a new shock collar,” I whispered. “The Mist deactivated the electricity.”
Her lips pursed, grooves deep around her eyes. “We’ll work on another one. The diamonds and chains will be enough for now.”
“It’s not safe for me.”
Her expression was unimpressed. “That’s the point, soldier.”
“Then I want to torture him more,” I spat, thinking about the devices I’d read about in my favorite medieval poetry books. “Let me put him on the rack.”
She blinked rapidly, genuine surprise on her face. For a second, I could see she was considering it. Wait, does the Crimson Army actually have a torture rack?
Her expression iced over. “No.”
“What is the point of the military industrial complex if not to torture our enemies?” I whispered furiously under my breath.
She arched her eyebrow, scar pulling tight. “Are you getting enough sleep?”
I swallowed down a scream of frustration. “I can’t. He’s in my damned bedroom.”
She rolled her eyes and stepped back dismissively. “Compose yourself. Master your Knight Mage powers,” she said loudly for everyone else’s benefit.
Curse you.
Shadow Swords brushed past me as she stalked away.
I swallowed another scream and went for a very short, agonizing morning run. Highly therapeutic, and not at all a sign of madness.
* * *
Later that day, my hands glowed bright silver, head throbbing as I raised a large stream of water out of a glass pitcher. I flicked my arm out. It drenched the Marshal.
Long seconds passed as she stared at me.
I flinched, waiting for her retaliation.
She grabbed a towel and calmly wiped her face. “Good,” she said tonelessly. “Progress, finally. However, a puddle isn’t going to defeat anyone. These sessions will be extended an extra hour daily. Until you’re dangerous.”
I blinked at her, exhaustion a crushing weight, not sure how I should feel.
“You’re dismissed.”
“Yes, sir.”
A few minutes later, when I got back to my room, Tarantula gestured for me to immediately follow him out into the desert for training.
“Please,” I whispered. “I can’t right now. I’m too tired.”
His colorless eyes narrowed as he studied my face. For a hopeful second, I thought he’d relent. I fantasized about melting in the heat of a scalding shower.
“Let’s go,” he said coldly. “My pardon is based on your mastery of magic.” He stalked out the door.
I’m not following him. I moved toward the washroom but froze as I grabbed the handle.
“You’re my best friend,” Aurora said as she held my hand in front of the roaring fireplace. Snow drifted in a hush outside the candlelit window, falling dreamily. We were two twelve-year-old girls having a sleepover.
Tears poured down my face as I rested my forehead on the door, gasping raggedly. I clawed at the wood, wishing with all my heart that I could go back in time and save her.
“Ravenal—let’s go!” Tarantula shouted angrily from the hall. “Thou have no work ethic,” he muttered loudly.
I wiped at my face. My spine cracked as I wrenched my shoulders high and schooled my expression. The North was depending on me.
I’m going to complete this quest.
He will not win.
Without a word, I followed him out into the sand. I let him batter me with his magic while I made a Shield uselessly across my chest. Squire hid behind a tiny cactus that sprouted from a dune like a weed, unable to watch.
There was nothing I could do, even if I wanted to; no water in the desert; no hope.
Hours later, we walked in hostile silence through the base.
I limped, grimacing with each pained step.
Squire slept on my shoulder, his head tucked low.
Beside me, Tarantula’s gait was much slower than usual as he side-eyed me.
His nostrils flared, lips pursed like he was barely holding himself back from saying something scathing.
Tension mounted.
I miss the good old days when I could electrocute him.
As we turned the corner, we both came to a stop. A Shadow Sword stood in front of our bedroom door, holding a folded prisoner uniform. She was a stunning woman with blond hair and arresting turquoise eyes. I recognized her as Jane, a member of the Marshal’s cadre. An unforgettable beauty.
She had the type of soft features and large doe eyes that men went to war over. What would it be like to be that pretty? She also looked like she still possessed sanity, something I didn’t have. Not anymore. Not after living with him.
I tried to wipe some of the dried blood and sand off my face. My features were sharp, jagged, beneath my hand.
“It’s time for your shower and change of clothes,” Jane said to Tarantula, her tone commanding as she held up a chatelaine, three keys jangling on the ring.
A vein pulsed on Tarantula’s jawline, giving away his ire.
“Now?” I blurted, feeling strange and unsteady. I’d objectively known he was showering, his curls were always silky and his uniform cleanly pressed, but I hadn’t thought about the specifics. Face burning, I ignored the sudden queasiness in my stomach. Indigestion, that’s it.
Jane nodded. “We usually do it earlier in the day, but I had business—Marshal’s orders,” she said, mistaking the reason for my horrified expression.
“Don’t worry. I monitor him very closely after I take his chains off.
” She gestured to her sword and winked at Tarantula.
“He hasn’t tried anything . . . inappropriate.
” From her tone, she was hoping to change that.
Tarantula stiffened beside me.
“He should stay dirty,” I grumbled, not knowing why my organs were suddenly in knots. “I guess I’ll . . . go to Ella’s room,” I said quickly, neck hot as I focused on the floor. “Give you guys privacy.”
Berating myself for making it weird, I willed my body to burst into flames. Where is an attacking dragon when you actually need it?
“Actually,” Jane said, her tone clipped as her lips pinched together, “the Marshal recommended you monitor his shower.” Of course she did. Meddling bitch. Jane shook her head like she disagreed, then smiled over at him. “I thought I’d let Tarantula decide who he wants to watch him—”
“Ravenal,” Tarantula said immediately, cutting her off. “She is the one I want.”
“Don’t say it like that,” I said automatically. “Creep.”
Jane opened her mouth like she was going to argue, a flush of frustration covering her neck. She obviously hadn’t tried showing him her ankle. Devastating for her. She shoved the keys and uniform into my hands.
“What?” I asked. “I think you should—”
“Just hold him at sword point, remove his wrist and ankle cuffs so he can take off the uniform, and let him shower. Then give him the new uniform and reattach the cuffs before you let him out of the bathroom.”
I shook my head no, but she was already walking away.
Slowly I turned.
Tarantula stepped into my personal space, looking positively delighted. “Do not worry, Ravenal. I won’t bite thee . . . unless thou ask me to.”
“Some people shouldn’t speak. You are some people.” I wrenched open our door and gestured for him to go. “Bastards first.”
He sauntered through proudly.
A few minutes later, after delaying as long as possible tucking Squire into bed and fussing over him, I stood in the washroom, holding an extensive network of prisoner chains in one hand. In the other, I clutched my sharpest bone dagger.
Tarantula stretched his hands above his head, popping his neck loudly, then untied his silver boots and pulled them off. Rolling his shoulders, he stood tall and pulled down his jumpsuit zipper.
I pointed my dagger at his chest, stopping the zipper’s descent. “What are you doing?”
“Showering,” he said slowly with a husky tenor.
A shiver whispered down my oversensitive spine. “Undress behind the curtain.” I gestured to the tub.
“Jane had me disrobe first.”
“I don’t care what you and Jane did,” I said, gagging as I thought about the two of them, alone, naked, and—Not going there. “Get in the shower, now.”
I pushed my blade into the D on his chest.
He tipped his head back, with his full lower lip caught between his teeth. His pupils slowly expanded as a red flush traveled up his cheeks. “Thou can hurt me . . . if thou want.”
“What?”
“Hurt me.”
“Excuse me—”
“I do not mind.” He smiled lazily, lashes fluttering.
I pulled my dagger away from him. “Stop that.”
“Stop . . . what?”