“I’m last again?” she asked. “Yeah. Sure. Totally random order.” Once again, she’d get to listen to everyone else scream.
“Not our fault Fate hates you,” the harpy quipped.
Her heart thudded as Roux appeared in the center of the arena. Two tables and a stool arrived next. Weapons adorned the smaller table. Chains hung from the other.
Pallid and a bit shaky, Carrigan headed down. Roux said something to her, his volume too low to pick up, and the Phoenix settled on the table and willingly chained herself down.
“Start the clock,” Roux called.
“Clock started,” Tonka called back.
For the next thirty minutes, the Astra sat on a stool—and Carrigan screamed. The same thing happened with the following eight warriors. Four and a half hours Blythe spent listening to blood-curdling bellows and unheeded pleas for mercy while watching Roux, vacillating between fascination and horror.
He forced the women to chain themselves to a table he flipped upright. He then eased onto the stool before them, keeping his back to Blythe. Throughout each session, he remained relaxed, talking so softly she couldn’t detect his words. He never touched his charges. Not with his hands or a weapon. Never displayed a sign of regret or remorse. Never hesitated to deliver the next round of anguish, however he was doing it.
Five women voiced their code word and died at the hands of the royal council, as promised. Thankfully, Carrigan and Lucca survived.
“Blythe the Man Hoarder,” Tonka called, giddy, “you’re up.”
Blythe’s stomach churned as she flashed to the sand. Walking would only delay the coming agony. Better to get it over with.
Perspiration dotted her palms. Oh, she didn’t care about the coming pain. Nothing he did today could compare to the anguish of losing Laban. But. She did care about what this meant for their...relationship.
Ugh. The R word. But facts were facts. Whatever had transpired in the past, they were, kind of, a couple. She’d slept with him; he’d stardusted her. If she squinted hard enough, she caught glimpses of it in the light. Honestly? She really, really wanted more. He might be the storm in her life, but he was also, somehow, a calming harbor. She savored every moment in his arms.
With her head held high, she approached Roux. He stood before the table laden with weapons, his back to her. Behind him was the other table—crimson wet the chains. That blood had come as the women strained for relief.
What was he soon to do to her? She gulped. More importantly, what thoughts whirred in his mind?
The muscles in his shoulders bunched as soon as she reached the area. With a monotone voice, he instructed, “Lie on the table and shackle yourself.”
Willingly shackle herself, exactly as the others had done or resist like a normal person and appear fearful. Not off to a great start.
“Sir, yes, sir,” she chirped a little too brightly. Limbs trembling a little, she cinched the cold metal around her ankles, then one of her wrists. Roux had to reach back to clamp the second shackle around the other, which he did without facing her. Suddenly, she had a direct view of the royal dais and the nine sets of eyes watching her with varying degrees of glee.
For their benefit, she pretended to get comfortable.
When Roux pivoted toward her at last, she forgot their audience. Forgot everything but him...her surprise second consort. Thealevalarippled, as if preparing to jump from his skin. He’d blanked his features, but hadn’t doused the red flickering in his irises. And oh, did those eyes project all kinds of torment.
He might have acted as if he didn’t want her anymore, but he clearly despised the thought of harming her. Some of her anger dulled.
As he locked that crimson gaze on her, she only wished to hug him.
“It’s okay, babe,” she said for his ears alone. “I’ll recover.”
A muscle jumped beneath his eye. After sheathing a hooked dagger in his belt, he lifted his chin and approached her. He flattened his palms near her shoulders and leaned over to align his face with hers, forcing her to stare straight up at him. His scent enveloped her, fogging her thoughts as usual. Only a compromised judgment explained the delicious melting of her bones right before a torture session.
“I will ask you the same questions I asked everyone else, harpy.” The coldness of his tone sent chills down her spine. “Whether you answer them or not, lie or tell the truth, I’m going to hurt you as much as I hurt the others. Know that every infusion of pain will be worse than the last. This won’t get better until you speak one of four words. Do you remember those words?”
“I do.”Stop. No. Please. Don’t.
And he’d called her harpy? Here and now? Seriously? Why hadn’t he used her nickname? Talk about a gut punch at the worst moment! Did he hope to put even more distance between them?
Would she do the same if—when—the situation reversed, and she oversaw his pain?
Could she? Should she?
“Prove you know them.” His voice dipped. So did his head. He ghosted the tip of his nose against hers. “Tell me one.”