“Well, you should take better care of your things,” I chide. “Tongue. Now.”
His crotch blooms with wetness, the tang of piss ripening the air. He makes a wobbly, wailing sound that’s caught behind his lips before he finally parts them, pushing his tongue out slower than a threatened snail.
“Good boy.”
I pinch it between my thumb and forefinger, whipping the blade through so fast I doubt he realizes it’s gone until the thick chunk of flesh thuds to the floor between us.
There’s a flash of disbelief, and then he screams a wild, bubbling howl, blood painting his chin and chest.
I grip his chin—grip ithard—forcing him to hold my stare as he releases an anguished sob. “Now, tell me you’re sorry.”
He sucks a shuddered breath and, eyes desperate and pleading, releases a pathetic, garbled whine.
I click my tongue. “Not good enough, I’m afraid.”
Swiping my bloody knife on his pants, I spin toward the exit. “Don’t choke on the blood,” I mutter, slamming the door behind me. “I’m not done with you yet.”
The amber contents of my half-filled mug spills over the side with every barefooted plod.
Step,slosh.
Step,slosh.
A whistle of wind nips at my face and fingers, stirring the thin layer of ankle-high mist that looks like cobwebs woven across the coarse coastal grass, giving me a brief reprieve from the stench.
I hate the smell of a war camp—a potent cocktail of piss, shit, smoke, mud, fear, poor man’s porridge, and unwashed ball sacks. Its only saving grace is the slight tang of ale that always pinches the air.
Lantern in hand, I cut a wobbly path between lines of domed, black tents—silent sentries in the dark. Each entrance flap is marked by a silver lantern hanging from a pike, casting the sleeping quarters in a huddled halo of frosted light.
Step,slosh.
I almost trample a white flower poking above the haze, somehow surviving against the odds and wrenching my thoughts straight back toher.
Another numbing sip doesn’t stop my mind from tumbling, pecking apart the past eighteen years. A vulture with a pile of sun-bleached bones.
The wind moans through the thick forest fringing the camp like a lofty wall, the wailing sound battling the crash of waves hammering the nearby shore. The same sound that battered me over and over while I sat clumped behind that rock—cold, alone, and crippled by my raw, exposed skin. Knowing she was leaving. Knowing there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it for risk of boasting my ugly shame to the world.
Always shield your weakness …
I guffaw into my mug.
I’m such a fucking fraud.
Stumbling a step, I almost topple into a man shitting over a bucket. “Sorry,” I mumble, receiving a low grunt in return.
Most of the men are asleep, but it’ll be a far different story once the sun begins to rise in an hour or so—by which time I plan to be passed out in the cabin, cock in hand, with a belly full of so much ale my mind can’t thread two thoughts together.
Blessed fucking numbness.
Approaching one of the many campfires, I toast the stars for being cunts, and drain my wooden mug before tossing it in the pit. Sparks erupt, little bits scattering on the dull wind as I set my lantern by my feet, cross my arms, and watch the glowing embers throb. With some hissing and spitting, the thing eventually catches light, warming the air the slightest amount.
Another burst of wind snatches that heat away, and I sigh, tightening the twist of my arms.
I should’ve been honest with her. Should’ve told her everything the moment she started to root around for answers. Fuck Rhordyn and his fucking secrets. He’s happy to absorb her hate, but there’s not one single part of me that’s ever wanted that for myself.
Something thunks against my forearm, and I’m about to blindly swat at it when a sharp trill breaks my bitter silence.
I blink away the haze and hone my double vision on the round, black eyes that dominate the petite mail sprite standing on my arm, dressed in felted garb thicker than they usually wear and looking utterly vexed to be standing in my presence.
