I am not given days to recover.
Despite the fever, chills, vomiting, diarrhea, and achy limbs… I am treated as though my body is indestructible. In a hazy state of weakness, I’m dragged from my bed, knees scraping over the checkerboard tile as two orderlies haul me to another treatment.
If there was anything left in my system, I’d vomit again. But there isn’t. I’m an empty vessel. And this is only day two.
My elbows are locked in two choke holds, tugging me along like an old, worthless doll. A puppet who has lost her strings. A run-down, vintage marionette.
My stomach is in knots and I’m shivering at the crisp draft in the air. Nothing in the world would make me happier than being back in bed. I don’t even care if they didn’t feed me. But it’s so cold out here—
A treatment door swings open, and I strain to lift my head, afraid to see what I’m in for.
No.
A pair of shadowed eyes lands on me. And in this gaslit lighting, they’re a smoky shade of hickory. Dessin is strapped down to an inclined table, raised enough for him to look back at me without lifting his head.
“Dess—” But there’s something about the cold, unfazed gleam in his stare. Detached. Eager. Vigorously amused. He nods at me with a smirk or anticipated entertainment. But that can’t be right. Dessin would be, at the very least, frustrated that I’m in a treatment room with him.
“Until your fever drops, you’re exempt from treatments,” Meridei announces, cutting off my line of sight to Dessin. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t watch Patient Thirteen suffer.”
I didn’t even have to watch that when I was his conformist.
My stomach takes a tumble. I’m going to be sick.
My heavy eyes trail over the wires on each side of him, the small machine on a table to his left, and a rag to bite down on. The orderlies on either side of me let go of their grips on my elbows, shutting the door behind me. And I want to stand. I want to rush to his side. But this fever, these viruses in my bloodstream make it hard to keep my eyes open, much less walk.
“Do you remember this treatment, Skylenna?” Meridei skips over to Belinda’s side, who is turning on the machine, swiping at switches and pressing buttons.
Electroshock therapy.
Meridei turns to Dessin. “Aren’t you going to grovel? Beg me to make her leave the room?”
Dessin raises an eyebrow. “Why would I do that?” His eyes slide back to mine, slowly, like slicing a dagger through skin. “I like the idea of her eyes on me.”
Meridei and Belinda exchange a look, attempting to hide their disappointment.
But I can’t stop staring at his expression. His slightly different mannerisms. All of it combined with his words… it can’t be Dessin anymore. It must be the alter that was locked in the cage surrounded by the Nightamous Horde.
What is his name?
The different alter winks at me as if to confirm the question buzzing around my thoughts. He’s here to take the pain.
Belinda places a headset with two bulbs that rest on his temples. Meridei shoves a white rag between his teeth.
And here I am, slumped on the cold floor, hands pressed into the tile, knees going numb, and completely powerless to prevent his pain.
“Should we let Skylenna decide the voltage?” Belinda glances my way.
Meridei’s mouth curls upward. “Do you like a slow burn?” she asks me. “We could start it out mild and build that tension by only increasing it a notch at a time.”
“That’ll take forever.” Belinda huffs out a laugh. “His brain will be fried by the time we finish.”
Terror gushes over my nervous system.
I don’t dare respond to their antagonistic taunts. Anything I do will result in this alter getting it far worse than he normally would if I weren’t here. My only subtle cue that I’m writhing on the inside is my nails scraping into the unfaltering tile.
But the alter’s weighty gaze is planted on me, completely unbothered by their threats.
There is no warning before they twist the knob on the machine. The table vibrates as it comes to life, rattling other tools on its surface.
The alter’s body goes taut, back arching as much as the straps and restraints allow. Every muscle turning to a block of stone. Every vessel about to burst. And he’s holding his breath with a red face, bulging veins in his neck, and that powerful jaw clamped down on the rag.
Bile sears my esophagus as I watch in horror, feeling the sharp pang of energy coursing through his body just by looking at him. Even through the fever, the dull pounding ache, I can’t tear my eyes away from him. I forget my own exhaustion, my own suffering, my own need for a warm bed.
The machine dies, powering down, and the alter’s flexed limbs come down with it. His back relaxes, fists unclench, bare toes uncurl. And he hums, closing his eyes slowly, pleased with the result. And his lids move back and forth. Could he be replaying the pain in his head?
He chuffs out a muffled laugh.
Meridei’s spine straightens. This wasn’t at all the response she was hoping for.
“Keep it up,” she seethes. “You won’t be able to fake satisfaction when we’ve hit the last notch.”
But that’s just it. I don’t believe he’s faking anything. The alter’s eyes practically roll back in his head at the pleasure of it all.
The machine roars back on, triggering the rigid response from the alter once more. These next few rounds, his chest growls at the impact, a low groan in the base of his throat—like someone unable to hold their breath underwater any longer.
And his responses don’t change. Every time the machine silences, the alter melts back onto the table moaning in pleasure.
Meridei slams her fist down next to him, shrieking like a child throwing a tantrum.
“I wonder how fun this will be for you if I leave it on! Would you like that? To die of a heart attack? To finally keel over to a brain aneurysm?” Her breathing is ragged now, unraveling to her own sadistic frustration. “Won’t that be humiliating for you? The great and terrible Patient Thirteen extinguished by a little machine.”
It’s hard to tell, but he’s definitely smiling with his eyes closed, as if that threat excites him even more.
The box screeches as it floods a new and extreme current of electricity through the alter’s brain. And this is the top notch. It doesn’t just cause the table holding it up to tremble, no, the walls quake, the floor rumbles. And the alter is nearly levitating from the torture table.
Wait…
I gasp, looking back and forth between the women and the body of the man I care deeply for. Every drop of moisture is drained from my mouth as I gape at the scene. I can’t even swallow, but I manage to scream.
“Please,” I beg, crawling toward the vibrating table. “Please!”
And the two women are grinning at my pathetic attempt to stop them. Because it is pathetic. The tears are rolling down my face as I suck in oxygen like a dying pig. Everything hurts but watching him slowly burn from the inside out hurts more.
“Meridei,” I rasp, reaching for the tip of her black heel. “I’ll do anything.”
I’m sobbing at her ankles now, feverish, delirious, and unhinged.
“Anything?” she purrs.
“God, yes! Just turn it off! Please, turn it off!”
She squats down in front of me. “Will you be my obedient little pet?”
Jesus. “Okay!”
“And do everything I tell you like a good slave girl?”
“Fine!”
She pauses for a moment, watching me like a fun experiment.
“Kiss my shoes, slave girl.”
His treatment table is still buzzing with agony. He could already be dead. He should be by now.
I do as she commands, leaning down to kiss the toes of her high heels. Embarrassment and disgust swirl in my stomach, triggering a wave of bile to slosh up my esophagus.
The buzzing from the machine ceases, only to be replaced with the laughter of Belinda. “He’s not going to like that. Everyone knows she’s practically his slave since they ran off.”
Before I can hear Meridei’s response, the side of my head cracks against the tile, slipping back into my fevered dreams and hallucinations now that the adrenaline pumping through my veins has simmered back where it came from.
The darkness sweeps me away, carrying me back to my room. And when I open my gooey, tearful eyes… Scarlett is kneeling beside me, smelling of blueberry pie and rose petals. She looks healthy, glowing, even. And with a smile like a sunset draping over the ocean. She’s happy.
“Hi,” I say, my mouth made of sludge.
“You’re so warm.” Her willowy fingers graze my forehead. “They’re doing their worst, huh?”
I sigh. “Lucky me.”
“It won’t be for long.”
I strain to look at her golden complexion through tears forming in my eyes. Those rosy cheeks, shimmering spring-green eyes, and pouting bottom lip.
“I miss you.” My voice breaks.
She smiles, leaning down to kiss the top of my scalding head. “I’m still here.”
~
Meridei forces me to crawl behind her like a dog following its master.
The fever passed, the aches of the virus have fled, and now I’m fit to take on whatever treatments the priest decided for me.
After finally being fed eggs and porridge, I’m stronger, more alert, and giving myself pep talks every few seconds. But at the moment, this degrading parade is what’s tearing me down. I can only hope that someone will tell Judas, or maybe he’ll see me in my chains and white gown being humiliated in the hallways.
A fool’s hope.
We turn the corner to a hall of vacated rooms. They were too old and condemned to ever make use of. But an orderly opens a door, sending a gust of asylum stench my way. Stale urine. Mildew rags. Rust.
Putrid.
Heavy.
As I pass the threshold on my hands and knees, I freeze without taking another step.
Chains hanging from the ceiling, the walls. Racks of weapons. Metal clubs, pliers, pokers, knives, saws, hammers, and tweezers.
I thought this kind of room was outlawed in the early days of settlement. Dessin’s the one that told me that. They used to hang patients by their toes. They’d torture them in reckless practices that served no purpose (not that they do now).
“I—Meridei—” I glance to my left and have to do a double take. Make sure my eyes aren’t betraying me.
Dessin is chained to the wall by his wrists. And he—he looks surprised to see me, like he accepted his fate to be tortured in this room alone. A flash of shock and disgust passes over his face. Eyes covered in storm clouds. Jaw locking down in outrage.
“The only thing you should be saying to me is thank you,” Meridei says, glaring down at me. “You didn’t want to watch him get fried in electroshock, then you’ll be happy to know that this time,”—she leans down to speak to me like a child that hasn’t learned to walk yet—“he gets to watch you.”
Ohhh, Dessin is going to end her.
I can’t look back to see his reaction. Meridei has my chin pinched between her thumb and index finger, digging her nails into me to the point of pain.
Just get it over with then.
She must have heard my thoughts, because her chin flicks to the orderlies behind me and I’m towed upward, aligned in the center of the room. It happens before I can object. My brass shackles unlocked and falling to the floor in a clanking heap, only to be replaced by another set of old, rusted shackles that are instantly snapped tight to my bone.
And I’m truly a puppet now. The chains are attached to the high ceiling, looped through a hook that allows the orderlies to pull my chains until my toes are dangling an inch above the floor.
I groan at the ripping pain in my wrists as they bear all my weight. And without meaning to, I look up at Dessin, chained to the wall in front of me. They gave him a front-row seat. And even though his expression is blank, unreadable. His knuckles are stark white. The rage of an alpha spills over his large, brooding frame. Beastly fury pumps silently through the veins bulging from his tan arms. And they’re ripped, like trunks of a tree emerging from the earth.
But he has to contain it. We’ve come too far in the past couple of days to ruin it all now. All I need is to get someone to reach out to Judas. Someone to—
Ruth! She must know I’m here. Maybe if I can catch a quick glimpse of her in the hallways, I can get her a message.
“Cut it off. We’ll replace it when she’s done,” Meridei barks at the orderly, nodding at my patient gown. The man with a groomed black beard takes two steps toward me, tearing through my white fabric with a blade I didn’t see in his hand.
I yelp as he tosses the shredded white material to the floor, leaving me hanging in only a medical white bra and underwear. It certainly isn’t as flattering as the lace Runa lent me.
I wonder if I hear Dessin growl under his breath.
“You think a good flogging or whipping will get those pesky demons out of you, Sky?”
I hate her. I really hate her.
“What about you, Thirteen?” Meridei glances over her shoulder, dark intent playing over those coy thin lips. “Break her body with a club? Or slice that pretty skin open with a whip?”
To my surprise, Dessin cracks a smirk. “You think it’s wise to provoke me?”
A warning. A strike of lightning shooting across the sky. A plague in the making.
Meridei is smart enough to take pause, considering his words with pursed lips and steadying breaths. She turns to me, holding her hand out to the orderly. “A whip it is, then.”
My eyes fall closed. Don’t cry. Don’t beg. At least it’s me and not him.
Before I can take a deep breath in, prepare for the impact of leather to skin—I’m struck. A strip of fire is ignited across my stomach. It’s a failed attempt on my part to stay quiet because the yelp bursts from my throat like vomit.
The next lash is across my chest. And the pain sweeps over my entire nervous system, forcing out a whimper. My face crumples in a tight point of agony, and I have to will myself to keep my eyes open. I release a determined breath.
I can do this.
But as the third strike wraps around my back, I’m screaming. Fire eating away my flesh, burning through my nerve endings like an infectious disease.
I really fucking hate her!
Dessin has broken his streak of stoic silence. He’s grunting now, yanking at the chains bolted to the wall like a wild animal that hasn’t been fed in days. He’s baring his teeth, snarling at every lash, at every sound of anguish that rips from my lips. I’m sure this is it. He’s going to free himself, wrap his broad, deadly hands around her neck and with one swift movement. Snap! The last unholy noise will be of her body hitting the floor.
And although I don’t agree with him killing… I wouldn’t blink. Wouldn’t lose a second of sleep over it.
The hurdle of her arm meets my neck, punching the air from my lungs. My head falls forward in an effort to suck in oxygen. And that’s not the worst of it. The stinging pain is radiating over every inch of flesh now. Even if that area hadn’t been lashed yet, it still burns like a white-hot branding iron the same.
“Meridei!” Dessin is a disaster waiting to wipe out the room. “Another move and I will rip that arm off with my teeth.”
I’m howling now at the swelling blisters covering my waist, my arms, my back, my neck.
Before Meridei can decide if she believes his threat or not, the door opens. Belinda sticks her head in. “Suseas wants to see you.”
Meridei massages her wrist as she considers the summons. “My arms are getting tired, anyway.” The black leather whip hits the floor as she descends for the door.
An orderly walks over to reel me down.
“No!” she barks, one shoulder holding open the door. “Leave them. Forcing him to stare at her blistering body will teach him not to make empty threats again.”
Empty. I might laugh if I wasn’t in splintering pain head to toe.
The orderlies file out of the room behind Meridei, turning the gas off to the main iron light fixture in the middle of the ceiling. The old flickering scones are about as helpful as four small candles.
As the door clicks shut, I lose the little control I have left of my vocals. The sound of a dying puppy whistles out of me.
“Skylenna.” More sounds of clanking metal. But I don’t open my eyes to look. That was bad. Really bad. And neither of us anticipated that they would bring back the old ways. It was a grave error that has cost me, but mostly him. He was tied up when Kane’s mother was killed. This was probably a huge trigger. It must have taken every ounce of self-control he has to watch me take a beating. All for this plan. All to speak with Judas. All for one damn clue from the Stormsages.
A pair of warm, giant hands cup either side of my face, fingers weaving into my damp hair. And then a forehead touches mine. “I fucking hate this.” His voice is gravel and darkness and pure, unfiltered hate.
“Dessin,” I whimper. “It hurts.”
“Where, baby? Tell me where it hurts.”
I sigh. “Everywhere.”
His hands leave my face, skimming down my arms. And his touch, his warm skin, his hot breath blowing over my face—it makes the tears stop running.
“Here?” His thumb grazes the cap of my shoulder.
I nod, and he leans forward, pressing a light kiss to the spot.
“And here?” A finger traces down my sternum lazily. “Tell me where.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “There too.”
He bows his head between my breasts, and at first, it’s only his lips, then a flick of his tongue. I melt, arching my back and forgetting about the sting there too.
“Am I making it go away?”
“Yes.”
He smiles and looks up at me with pupils growing larger, swallowing his brown irises. His fingers trace over my hardening nipples under my white bra and my cheeks stain with wild heat. “Here, baby?”
I moan in response. His mouth closes over the peaks through the white fabric. Hot moisture seeps through the barrier back to my puckering flesh. And he’s sucking, wet sounds muffled by the thin material covering my breasts. Another sound peals from my lips, Was it a grunt? A whimper? I’m not sure. But I need more. I have to have more. It’s distracting me from the pain.
His mouth unlatches from my left nipple, only to close over the right one. He pinches it with his teeth, making me yelp at the sting. But his tongue immediately laps me over to soothe it.
I take in a shaky breath. Uneven. Shuddering.
Dessin raises his head, stealing another glance at me as he lowers himself to his knees. Two fingers stroke the covered slit, like a knife cutting through butter. He sighs, closing his eyes as my head falls back from the rush of euphoria.
“Christ.” His voice is broken and hoarse. His fingers glisten in the candlelight, soaking and he is only feeling me from the outside of my panties. I can’t help but want to apologize. For what? I don’t know. But my body is reacting in strange ways. Scarlett warned me this would happen. We leak between the legs.
“I’d beg for a taste,” he growls. “To have my head between your soft thighs.”
“Yes,” I answer his question before he can ask it. “Please.”
His two fingers press against my clit, sparking me with feral desire. I hiss, arching into his hand.
“Fuck. I shouldn’t be doing this.”
But he does anyway.
He’s gentle in the way his finger pulls them down, careful not to touch the welts across my skin. And his breath is skimming my exposed, private area. The place I’m throbbing the most. The pooling of anticipation. The ache so internal, I’m squeezing my thighs together to keep it all in. Dessin notices.
“Open for me,” he says, low and ragged with need.
I exhale slowly, letting my thighs drift apart, far enough to let him decide what he wants to do next. He watches me like a man starved, a hungry beast waiting to devour.
“Do your wrists hurt?”
I look up at my arms over my head. I hadn’t noticed. Yes. No. Yes. Kind of, not really at the moment.
He nods as if understanding my confusion about what I’m feeling.
“Hook your legs over my shoulders. I’ll hold you up.” Dessin guides my legs on either side of his neck, then slides his hands over the roundness of my butt. Groaning as he squeezes. And he does it, stands up straight to his full six feet and four inches. My wrists are no longer straining against the metal shackles. He’s tall enough that my arms hang loosely only an inch or two above my head.
“Thank you.” I breathe out, relieved.
But the moment to relax is gone. He couldn’t wait any longer, dipping his face directly between my legs to consume my heat, my desire, my wetness as if his life depended on it. And those plush lips kiss my clit, once, twice, and then his tongue, testing the waters, taking a long taste of my center.
We both moan at the same time. I don’t know what this is. I’ve heard Scarlett talk about doing it to other women, but the thought of having it done to me has never crossed my mind.
“Wider, baby,” he orders. My legs slide farther away from his neck and he’s done holding himself back, done making slow strokes with his tongue.
He collides with my pussy, teeth grazing my clit, and then with one unexpected motion, that tongue sinks inside of me. Blazing fire ripples deep in my stomach, curling my toes over his back.
“Fuck!” I grit out.
His growl of approval vibrates between my legs and I throw my head back again, letting out strange, needy noises for more.
“I need you.” I’m practically sobbing at his savage mouth feasting on me, melting inside of me, turning my bones into pudding.
He lifts his head to look at me, eyes foggy and unfocused, as if he’s under a spell, bound by a coma slipping over his consciousness. “Say that again.”
I blink down at him. “I need you, Dessin.”
“Again.” He removes a hand from my backside, angling a hooked finger to slide inside of me, slowly, agonizingly slow, until he stops pushing at the knuckle. That fingertip presses against a spot in a pulsating rhythm. He’s scratching an itch or soothing a burn. I can’t tell. I can’t think.
“Say it,” he barks, but his tone is weak and strained.
“God. I need you. I’ll always need you.” I’m bucking against him hysterically. Ravenously chasing that energy building around his finger. I would be embarrassed if I wasn’t so high on unquenchable lust.
“There,” he says. “You’re going to come on my tongue. And when you do, I want you to scream my fucking name.”
I’m hyperventilating. His dark voice is torturous and only adding to my building tension.
“Do you understand? I don’t give a damn who hears you.”
I nod quickly. And he’s lowered to my clit again, sucking and lapping me up. That finger drums against that spot, and it’s over.
As if I’m spilling my soul to the floor, tumbling down a cliff, every cell, every muscle goes up in rapturous flames. “Dessin!” I howl, my thighs clenching around his head as the world goes black and cloudy. I’m floating above him, no longer trapped, no longer a patient. It’s just me and him and his mouth eating me up.
A moment passes, and I go limp and floppy over his shoulders. He laughs, lowering my legs to dangle above the ground again. Rushing to the lever attached to my chains, twisting as fast as he can until I’m a pile of sludge on the cold ground.
Dessin catches my head before I let it flop to the tile. And he’s staring down at me, wiping sweat from my forehead, tucking loose strands of wavy locks behind my ears.
“I don’t care that she was coincidentally interrupted by the blonde bitch. I’ll sever that bony arm from her body the moment we get to leave.” His attention is sucked in by the welts burning over my skin. His brow furrows in a vengeful need to carry out his threat now.
I smile up at him, despite the fact that my skin feels like it’s been shredded, now that the endorphins and bursts of dopamine have passed.
“I can handle it,” I whisper. “Only if you believe in me.”
Dessin scoops me up in his arms, cradling me as he leans his back against the wall.
“Until hell freezes over.”
“And even then.”
