Fuck. Images of Toffer rise in my thoughts. I’d come to hate his torture more than my own. Once we became friends—when our friendship turned into love—they started using us against each other. That’s why they put us close enough to talk. Captives form strong bonds, and they used everything they could to pressure us to comply.
“I don’t give a fuck what you do to him,” I declare, disdain in my voice as I hear Joralf stumble to his feet. “You’re just wasting your time.”
“Lucky for you we have nothing else to do.” His eyes narrow, and he takes a step into the cell. “I’m not allowed to mar your skin, but I have many other ways to hurt you. Stand up. Now.”
I bite back the groan that threatens to flow from my gut into my throat. Joralf stumbles toward the guards waiting outside my cell, his gaze meeting mine. He’s as broken down as I’d expected, but his back is straight, even after so many months of torture. He’d stand a full head taller than me, and hints of blonde hair lie hidden beneath the grunge and dirt that covers every part of him. With a narrow face, wide eyes and full lips, I can see the beautiful and alluring elf his mate fell in love with. It’s the color of his eyes, though, that draws me in. This place hasn’t dimmed their light. They’re as blue as the sea, warm and bright. Despite everything, they’re smiling at me.
I nod as the corners of my lips lift, just a touch. We had more of a reprieve than I’d hoped. The first time I was here, every day brought new and different pain.
Joralf and I have been through this before. We’ll survive today too.
We trudge toward the dungeon, our steps as slow as the guards will allow. I’m shoved twice, nearly toppling to the ground, with a snide remark about my pace. I can’t bring myself to go faster, though. I cling to every second of delay like it’s a lifeline.
Too soon, we step into the cavern I dread. My eyes grow wide as I glance around to find another rack facing the original. They are a dozen feet apart, giving both of us a clear view of the other. They didn’t do this when Toffer and I were here. Then, one of us just curled into a ball as far away as possible, trembling as we watched the other suffer, helpless to do anything to stop it. The guards soon forgot about us in their glee at finding new and different ways to cause pain to whoever was being tormented that day.
The Dróttning’s torture has grown more sophisticated. Lucky us.
They bind Joralf to the rack that’s absorbed so much blood it’s turned crimson. Unbidden, a shiver rumbles through me, my mind dragging up the feel of the wood on my bare skin. The dread that always settles in me when I’m stretched across its planks, deep and cold, finds its place again in my gut. My bones feel like ice that will never melt, holding me perpetually in a Helheim that’s somehow achingly frigid.
Like me, Joralf doesn’t fight the ropes that twist around his wrists and ankles, securing him in place.
And then I’m shackled across from him, his face all I let myself see. As I did with Toffer when he suffered, my eyes hold Joralf’s, mirroring his agony in my expression, never shrinking away from his pain. I make sure he knows I’m here with him, every step of the way.
“This one’s my favorite,” one of the men proclaims, his knife shaving off one of Joralf’s nipples and tossing it to the side.
My friend’s face twists as he fights to hold in the scream. I watch, impotent, as his body shudders through the anguish. For ten seconds, maybe more, he holds his breath, struggling to control his reaction. And then he smiles.
“Yup,” the guard says, a self-satisfied grin turning his face even more grotesque. “This is why I like this elf. It’s been, what”—he looks up at another guard—“five months since I made him scream. It’s a challenge. And I love a good challenge.”
The blade rips up from its place near Joralf’s groin, removing skin all along the path to Joralf’s other nipple, which is tossed aside too. Again, Joralf seems to battle theneedto scream and cry and rage, every part of him shaking as if a gust of wind rushed into this room to dance around and with him. His eyes close and he sucks in a breath, and then another. A cruel smile follows as he lifts his lids and glares at his tormentor.
The abuse continues for what must be hours, although I have no way to judge the passage of time so deep in Vanatia’s bowels. Twice, I let my gaze drop from Joralf’s as his face reflects the torment they’re inflicting and he glances down at his maimed body. I can’t see a bit of skin, the blood and gore so thick it seems impossible that Joralf is the only source. When he looks up, I do the same. And I hold him the only way I can.
I’m numb, and I’m sure Joralf is too. We’ve both learned this lesson. Every emotion, save one, is dangerous. We can allow ourselves rage alone here. But that takes energy that drips from open wounds, red and black. The only thing to do at this point is shut down. Endure the pain. Wait.
Occasionally, the guard laughs, a wicked gurgle that erupts from his belly devoid of any joy. Hate drives him. “I fucking love this,” he bellows as he looks around the room, smirking at each of the guards in turn before he glances back at Joralf. Spinning to face me, he adds in a low voice, “You’re next. But I’ll be tasting those nipples—and the rest of you—before I take them as trophies. You’re as sweet as they come.”
“Fuck. You.” The anger that pours out of me is cleansing. I grasp onto it like a life raft, clinging to the knowledge that he and the rest of them will deserve every ounce of pain I can inflict. And then I spit, a measly amount of saliva all I can muster, but enough to reach him.
His finger rises to his cheek. He wipes off the spittle and then, with a leer, licks it clean. “Like I said. Fucking tasty. I can’t wait until the Dróttning gives you back to me.”
“But wait you will,” she says as she strides into the cavern. The guard backs away from us, and I spin my head, my thoughts scattering as I realize I didn’t even hear her approach. Glancing around, I can see that nobody else did either. They’re surprised, but they’ve experienced this before. She has some way to conceal the sound of the heels that now click-clack across the stone. She’s a snake, hiding when she wants to better attack her prey.
She stops just in front of Joralf, her hand lifting to drag a sharp nail around the mess of tissue that used to surround his belly button. “Such good work,” she purrs with a nod toward the guard. “He’ll feel your torment for days.” She straightens, licking the blood off her finger. “Take his cock next, then return him to his cell,” she demands in a dismissive tone, her hand waving as if Joralf’s presence offends her.
“No.” The word escapes before I can stop it. A tremor rolling through me, I straighten my spine and say it again. “No. It’s my turn. Just send him back to his cell.”
“Not yet, elf,” the Dróttning responds in a cold whisper. “We have much to do before you’ll be ready to share your secrets with me. You and I will have fun while we prepare.” Her hand snakes out to rub along my bare skin, skimming my thigh before lifting up to graze my stomach and ribs, landing on the swell of a breast. “So much fun,” she adds as her thumb caresses my nipple.
Revulsion ripples through me, my flesh crawling, desperate to escape her touch.
“Not yet, though,” she repeats, taking a step back. “Her skin is nearly ready. It must be clear, none of this pink remaining.” She lifts her arm, waving at me with a little grimace. “I don’t like to work with blemished skin.”
“We won’t touch her,” one of the women declares, her voice firm. “She’ll be ready for you.”
“Good. After you return the male to his cell, bring this one to my rooms.” Turning, she strides away, the sound of her steps echoing through the room as she goes. Before she walks out, she pauses and spins, her gaze meeting mine. “I’ll tell her what she can expect,” she adds before giving us her back and strutting out the door.
Silence hangs around us for a moment, broken by the lead guard’s laugh. “My favorite part,” he sneers, lifting his blade as he stalks toward Joralf.
