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He can’t ignore Arsene, no matter how much he might want to. His hunger is stronger than his willpower, and he needs to be replenished. He can already taste it dripping onto his tongue. Resentful, he grabs Arsene’s arm and yanks him closer. His teeth enter the sweet flesh as if it’s a perfectly ripe fruit, splitting the vein and freeing the soul-rich blood. Arsene doesn’t even twitch. Through the bond comes a flicker of desire, almost as delicious as Arsene’s soul itself. He swallows down his meal and yanks Arsene closer.
“Go on, make it feel good,” he rasps. “That’s what I’m for, right? Fighting your battles. Getting you off.”
Arsene resists. “Not like this. You’re still weak.”
Nur bares his teeth. “Ashamed to want me? Did you forget I was a monster until you saw my ugly face?”
“No! I’m not ashamed of that. I do still…” his voice drops to a whisper, and his eyes flicker away. “…want you.”
The words trigger a pang of longing, and Nur hates it. He lets Arsene go. “Then it’s the feeding that disgusts you.”
“It’s not like that,” Arsene rumbles, but the fear in his eyes makes him a liar. Nur is ashamed of the feeding because he needs it. Arsene is ashamed because he likes it.
Nur rubs his eyes. His head is nothing but a choppy sea. He just wants to lie down and sleep. “Go away. I’m tired.”
Arsene bows his head. “Sleep, then. I’ll come back later.”
It’s not fair that he’s relieved to hear it. That it washes him with comfort that follows him into sleep, into dreaming, that he dreams of deep whispers in his ears and hands pushing the hair off his brow and being surrounded by warmth and the smell of cold wind rushing over stone.
Then his dream changes.
He dreams of pain. It’s not the worst pain he’s ever felt, but he knows, somehow, that he’s close to the end. Strange that it doesn’t hurt more.
He’s underground, far from the daylight. Nowhere familiar—the room is strange, quite unlike Hell. It’s gleaming and square, with blocky white cupboards, long white sinks and steel tables. Tattered ceiling tiles flop from their cradles. His back is cold. He must be lying on one of the steel tables. He tries to sit up, buthis spine is stone. He opens his mouth to shout, but his throat is closed tight.
Clattering and banging shake the steel door in its frame as if someone’s trying to get in. He’s never feared death. Still, dread fills him inch by inch, rainwater filling a barrel. He lifts a hand to his mouth like words will be there for him to yank free.
His fingers come away bloody.
Chapter 23
NUR
Arsene is scrubbingblack scorpion goo off the wagon cover. A bucket of washing water sits between his thighs and he uses a stone to scrape at the stains on the tough canvas. His face is set in concentration.
He makes menial tasks look graceful. Nur hates it—hates him.
When he senses Nur watching him, he lifts his eyes. Their gazes meet for a split second. Nur is the first to look away.
How can he be angry at Arsene for doing what he’s been taught all his life?
To hide his true self. To fear and disdain those who are different…including himself.
That’s why Nur can never be enough for him. He’ll always be a Hellbeast. He should never have entertained the sad, lonely sliver of him that wanted more.
But it seems he’s still too weak not to take what’s given to him.
The caravan left the valley behind while Nur was recuperating. The day after he killed the chimera, while he lay unconscious in the wagon, Myra and several of the hunters went upstream to look at the caves. Just in case. They founda fresh nest of chimeras incubating another manticore—barely more than an oversized scorpion with stubby wings, but in a few days it would have grown to the size of a mule. They were lucky to only encounter one mature chimera. And though Arsene was right all along, he remains subdued by guilt. It makes Nur want to throw things at him.
That night, Myra gives him his own tent. “It’s a spare,” she says curtly, but there’s concern in her eyes.
“I don’t need it,” he says, but at the sight of Arsene’s form hunched by the fire he changes his mind. “Never mind. Thank you.”
Myra follows his gaze. “You best be careful of him.”
A painful chuckle escapes him. “Yeah. I’ve tried.”
“He’s the type with a big, gaping hole inside. Needs more than he can ask for, but he’s scared of getting it.” She shrugs. “Boy, I know that type well. Took me a long time to figure out I could let someone in without my whole world collapsing.”
