The dark fae is marching back towards me, two satchels bundled in one hand, the other hand loosely holding onto a coil of black rope.
He moves for me first, not so much as glancing at Spike still tucked up by the van. He’s not a flight risk, but I am.
The warrior snatches my bruised wrists. He’s quick to bind them with the black rope—which I notice with a wiggle is far smoother than our rope, but as strong as handcuffs. Then he drags me over to Spike.
In silence, in utter and absolute defeat, with tears streaming down my face, I watch it all happen but I don’t really feel any of it. We are both tied to his weapons belt with the rope, he slings the satchels over Spike’s neck for him to carry, wraps fabric around his middle wounds, then moves through the remains of the massacre that happened here.
He pauses at every human body, running a dagger through their hearts as if to ensure they are dead—or to collect their blood in some sort of cultural tradition, maybe. I don’t give it much thought.
Feel like a zombie, just moving because I must. A zombie in tears.
Then he picks up a lit torch and hands it to Spike for him to carry—looks like he’s the mule. I flicker my gaze down to my body and it’s clear why I’ve not been given anything to carry.
Besides my torn bodice and the bruises on my ribs hidden by my dress, my legs are scattered with cuts and bruises, and there’s a thin stream of blood coming down my left arm from my head-wound.
And still, I’m alive.
I don’t want to be alive. I never wanted this—to be captured, to be a slave. I wanted to have a dagger through my heart or a bullet through my head.
Without much heart in my voice, I mutter, “I’ll kill you the first chance I get.”
It should be enough for him to snap my neck.
Instead, the warrior turns on me. Firelight dances in the tarry blackness of his eyes and warms his beige skin-tone. He looks down his narrow nose at me, his strong jawline clenching tight, and he puckers his mouth in thought.
He moves in a blur, leaning forward. I jerk back as he snatches the hem of my dress and—tears a strip right off. He’s standing again, shoving the material into my mouth, then winding it all the way back to the wound on my head.
I frown—he’s muzzling me and yet binding my head-wound at the same time. Surely a coincidence.
And my plan for a quick death has failed all over again.
So when I get the chance, I won’t do what I promised him. I won’t kill him. I’ll just take my chances and slit my own throat. If I can take Spike down with me, all the better.
And sooner the better, too.
I shot this dark fae twice. His shoulder bleeds because of me. I threatened to kill him, hell Itriedto kill him.
Just because of some stupid freckles, I’m still alive. But that sure as shit shouldn’t mean I’m safe.
No, I’ll be made to suffer for what I did. And I’m just not cut out for torture, you know?
I need to think of a way out of this, and fast.
I can’t be the slave—the prisoner—of a dark fae warrior.
I won’t.