Chapter 13 #2
The massive wooden doors at the far end of the yard creaked open, and Thorn stepped into view, exuding an authority so palpable it was almost suffocating.
The crowd instinctively made way, like anxious crows scattering.
But it wasn’t Thorn’s bulk that drew Symond’s gaze; it was Elora, lingering in his shadow, clad in that ridiculous gray uniform of a ward.
Symond’s pulse quickened, a surge of exhilaration coursing through him.
He was unable to suppress the small, twisted smile playing on his lips.
Finally. No more privileges, no more shields.
Just her, vulnerable. Her head hung low, gaze averted, dark strands of hair obscuring her features.
It was difficult to decipher her emotions in the dancing torchlight, but he was far more interested in the absence of the bruises he’d inflicted.
He watched as Thorn said something to her and then stepped aside, dismissing her with a casual wave.
Elora moved away, walking stiffly across the courtyard toward the refreshment table, each step a tightrope between her frustration and the facade she was clearly forcing herself to maintain.
She picked up a glass of fizzing wine, her fingers trembling slightly as she did, but her face exhibited nothing, just a shell performing a routine, utterly absent from the scene around her.
Symond shot to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the stone. He barely noticed the curious stares of the surrounding students. What did their opinions matter? His focus was singular, narrowed in on her like a hawk spotting its prey.
He moved toward her, a primal need pulling him forward. Every fiber of his being was taut with the urge to confront her, to strip her of her illusions and expose just how fragile, how utterly trivial she was. There was no strategy in his mind, nor was one necessary.
His hands twitched with a craving to seize her, to shove her into the grime where she rightfully belonged.
He recognized the futility of that impulse.
But he’d hover, apply pressure, unleash words sharp enough to cut deep.
No need for physical blows to see her shatter.
Just the perfect combination of phrases, a little pressure, and she’d crumble like paper in a storm.
He would take his time dissecting every second.
He’d drill into her mind just how much agony she owed him, a meticulous reminder of the debt that hung between them like a noose.
Thorn stepped in front of him.
The older man appeared as if from nowhere. Thorn’s imposing figure blocked Symond’s view of Elora entirely, and the jarring interruption made Symond stumble back a step.
Thorn tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into a small, knowing smile. “Did you enjoy your fifteen minutes last night?” His gaze bore into him. “Did you get the revenge you needed?”
Symond let out a scoff that felt like shards of glass in his throat. He coughed, but it was an inadequate cover, a pathetic attempt to mask the disdain. His back straightened as he forced his body into some semblance of respect.
“Thank you for the gift,” he said, clearing his throat, his voice slipping into a veneer of politeness that felt as cheap as it sounded. “I just wish there had been more time. Fifteen minutes doesn’t nearly make up for nine years.”
Thorn’s smile didn’t waver. He watched as Symond, clearly distracted, let his gaze slip to Elora, who stood rigid by the refreshment table, clutching a glass of effervescent wine like it might shatter under the weight of her anxiety.
Rian was beside her, speaking in a hushed, concerned tone.
Elora’s eyes darted between the glass and the ground; her lips pressed together in a thin line.
It was clear she wanted to respond to Rian, but she didn’t. She knew better.
She wasn’t out here earlier, setting up. If she won’t act like a ward, he should lock her away, not let her enjoy the wine. Symond’s lip curled in contempt. “Why is she out here?” he asked. “Enjoying the celebration like she’s a part of it?”
Thorn paused, the chaos of the courtyard fading into the background. He turned sharply, casting an assessing glance at her. His words sliced through the din, precise and unwavering. “Elora.”
Her head snapped up, eyes wide and filled with panic as she met both Thorn’s and Symond’s gazes.
Rian fell silent, backing off, while Elora, shoulders curled as if Thorn had reprimanded her, trudged away from the table.
She approached them slowly, hesitantly, and when she reached Thorn’s side; she extended the glass of wine to him.
Thorn took it, then his fingers curled around the nape of her neck, yanking her closer with an intensity that was neither tender nor gentle.
It was rough and direct, like everything else he did.
“She’s not out here enjoying herself,” Thorn said, dripping with condescension. He squeezed her neck, forcing her to look at Symond. “She’s learning her place, serving me for the evening.”
Symond chuckled, his eyes raking over Elora with a twisted satisfaction. His personal servant. A dark impulse coiled in his mind; what if she were his servant for the night, bending to his every command?
Symond tilted his head, eyes gleaming with something smug, something testing. “Would you let me borrow her first?”
Elora’s head jerked up toward Thorn, her eyes wide, a storm of fear crackling in them.
He could basically hear the silent screaming reflected in her face.
It almost made him want to bark out laughing, knowing how terrified she was of him after only a fifteen minute glimpse into his world. How pathetic. She won’t stand a chance.
Thorn leaned down, whispering something in Elora’s ear. Whatever he said made her stiffen briefly, but then he let her go, giving her a dismissive swat. “Go,” he ordered.
She turned and hurried away, her steps quick and unsteady, her shoulders slumping in visible relief once she was out of their reach. Damn it.
Thorn watched her disappear, a smirk creeping onto his lips, before he turned his attention to Symond.
He bridged the distance, a shadow playing across his expression, his voice softening to a chilling whisper.
“If you’d prefer, you could always give up your apprenticeship and stay here as a ward.
Then you would be able to torment her all you’d like.
Of course, that would be between being used and abused like the rest of the scum.
Then again, you’re already used to that. ”
Symond’s blood ran cold. He shook his head quickly, his bravado slipping, the vision of himself in a gray uniform like Elora’s racing across his brain. The humiliation, the vulnerability, it was unbearable. He preferred enduring any master than to being degraded to that.
“That’s what I thought,” Thorn said. “Forget her. She’s my property now, and I’ll ensure she understands that.
You, on the other hand, should really concentrate on your duty to MAHO, to the Empire.
It’s a privilege, Symond, one that you shouldn’t waste.
If you’re smart, you’ll let this obsession die before it drags you back here in chains. ”
Symond swallowed hard, the words lodged in his throat.
He gave a stiff nod, unable to trust his voice.
Thorn was right. He needed to forget about Elora, to leave her behind and focus on his future.
He stood there, keeping his eyes on her as she sheltered under the archway along the east building.
Something twisted in his gut—an inkling of loss, a chance at real revenge slipping away like sand through his fingers. It was maddening.