His gaze moves back to my nipples, still poking out like they’re saying “hello” to him, and stays there. “I’m happy to see you too, little elf,” he growls at me. His hand reaches down to caress his groin, which has bulged out of his pants in the few seconds since he saw me. “I’d hoped to be the one to remove your clothes the first time I saw you naked, but this’ll do. I’ll make sure we’re alone next time.”
“Fuck. You.” I spit out the words, struggling to stop the tremble threatening to consume me.
“Soon,” Fhord responds with a wink. Turning toward the Dróttning, he gestures at me, one eyebrow quirking up. “What is this?” he asks in a voice that holds curiosity but nothing else.
“A gift,” she purrs. “I heard you were interested in her. I thought you might like to finish what you started in the forest when you should have been capturing the dragon.”
He nods, grinning like the shit-eating bastard he is, and looks back at me. “A generous gift, indeed. To what do I owe this … pleasure?”
“Consider it a gesture of my goodwill. You may do with her what you want. When she’s returned, I expect her skin to look like this. As you know, I do not like to play with scarred skin.”
“I thank you,” Fhord declares as he drops into a deep bow. “I’ll have fun with her.” He spins toward the door, striding over to call in a guard before stalking toward me. “Take her back to her cell. Give her clothes and food and leave her alone. Let it be known she’s mine. Nobody else may see—or touch—what belongs to me.”
His hand reaches out to caress my cheek and despair flares inside me, only to be pushed out by humiliation. Fighting back tears as my throat constricts, I let myself glance at him, see the firm set of his jaw, his flat, empty eyes, and a cruel smirk. But the pain of his betrayal lasts just a moment. Anger takes its place, dragging me back to my time in the caves when I wanted nothing more than vengeance. With quivering muscles and a heartbeat that’s poised to fight, I lift my hand and smack his away.
Fhord smiles and stretches out his arm, beckoning me toward the guard.
“Go, little elf,” Fhord whispers when I don’t move. “Before I carry you back to the cell myself. Or maybe you’d like my arms wrapped around your naked body.”
The room blurs as reality sinks in. The shame I felt before is nothing compared to what I’ll feel in Fhord’s hold, knowing I’m just a toy for him to play with. Even though I’d wanted to be so much more to him.
But I won’t let Fhord see me cry. Standing, I stride out the door. Somehow, I hold back the tears through the caverns and corridors we follow back to the prison. Only when I’m in my cell, dressed and huddling in a corner, do I release the firm grip I’ve held on my emotions.
And I grieve.
Chapter twenty-eight
Sifa
Who Are You, Fhord?
“Sifa,wakeup.”
It’s just his voice, I realize as I lay there on the concrete facing the wall. He hasn’t touched me. He probably knows I’d take his hand off if I could.
Memories bounce through my thoughts. Joralf being tortured in front of me. All the blood and pain and hatred while I just hung there, helpless. Watching his agony.
The Dróttning appearing and ordering the guards to trot me through the caverns, naked, to her rooms, where she confirmed she knows my secret. She may not know everything—I don’t think she has any idea where to find what I’ve spent years trying to hide—but it’s enough to terrify me.
Fhord, appearing in her gods-damned rooms, like he’s a regular visitor. Eye-fucking me while my traitorous body responds to his leer. Then him accepting thegiftfrom the Dróttning—the chance to rape me at his leisure for as long as he wants. Somehow, that’s the worst part. I’ll be his plaything, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
“We need to talk, and we don’t have much time. Please wake up, my little rabbit.” He’s whispering—probably afraid Joralf will hear him—but a hint of desperation warbles in his voice.
“Don’t call me that. Ever.” I don’t move. I don’t want to see him. I also don’t whisper because I trust Joralf more than Fhord. But I do respond. I need him to know he’s nothing to me. And he never will be.
“I’m sorry. I know you don’t believe me. But I promise you, I only did what I thought I had to for you to survive.” Fhord’s still speaking barely loud enough for me to hear him.
“Then you left me here in this prison. And she tortured me.”
“She told me she wasn’t going to hurt you. Not yet. I thought I had time. I believed her and it’s killing me how badly I fucked up. That I let her hurt you.”
Those are the words that drag me up. I want to look him in the eye when he lies to me. So I sit—every part of me aching from the long hours of hanging on the rack yesterday—and turn toward him. “You believed her? Why the fuck would you believe the Dróttning?”
“I can usually tell when she’s lying. And she doesn’t lie to me often.”
“What is she to you?” I pause, my eyes searching his. “Who are you, Fhord?”
“I’ll tell you. I promise. Right now, though, we don’t have time.”
