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Other than the fact that he’s had me drugged for days.
That has to be it.
It has to be the explanation for everything.
It’s in whatever he’s been feeding me (when was the last time I ate?).
It’s in whatever I’ve been drinking (when was the last time I had water?).
“We’ve been giving you food and water,” he says, leaning in closer, running his nails down my thigh, over the tattoo of the ram’s head, my legs aching to clench together. “You’ve been refusing. It’s good, I suppose. Soon you’ll never look at food the same way again. It won’t be what fuels you.” He presses his nails into my skin until it hurts. He looks up at me through his long dark lashes. “I like this one. The ram’s head. Aries. Power to overcome and achieve. Very curious though, are the eyes. Was this the artist’s idea or yours?”
The more he touches me, the more my skin feels like it’s on fire. My breath thickens, feeling heavy. “It was mine.”
“The Eye of Ra on one side, The Eye of Horus on the other.” He takes his hand away and only then do my lungs clear. “I understand tattoos. I was covered in them once. Nordic runes. Head to toe.”
I glance at his forearms, showcased by his rolled-up sleeves. They’re muscular and strong, the kind of forearms that would make any woman salivate. But there’s no sign of any tattoos on him. His skin is pale, unblemished, flawless.
“Head to toe?” I question.
He nods. “Yes,” he muses, eyes now captured by the ravens at my calf. “It was customary at the time.”
“And you had them all removed?”
His eyes flit up to mine, glittering darkly. “Not quite.”
I swallow. “Are you going to let me go?”
He stares at me for a moment, one black brow raising like a question mark on his handsome face, unblinking. I hate that I still find him attractive after everything he’s done.
He moves up on the bed, his giant frame making the mattress sink to one side, and places a cold palm at my cheek, my eyes closing involuntarily at the contact, his hand spanning the whole side of my face.
“I can’t,” he whispers to me, his voice making my skin dance with pleasure. “I don’t know how much you’re worth.”
My eyes snap open to find his eyes just inches away. “You said this wasn’t about money!”
“It isn’t,” he says. “Money isn’t the only currency. You’re studying history. You should know that.”
“You’re trading people. People for what? Other people? Slavery?”
He gives me a dry look. “Give me some credit.”
“Credit? You have me tied to a fucking bed, in some fucking haunted mansion. You’ve kidnapped me, you don’t know what you’re doing with me but you’re a mercenary so…”
“So, I need to make sure I get what I want in return before I hand you over to the people who’ll most likely kill you.”
Dread sinks my heart.
“What?” I whisper, the panic clawing through me.
“Oh,” he says, looking mildly surprised, hand at his chest. “You’re making me feel as if I’ve betrayed you already.” He leans in. “Remember what I said before, that you weren’t scared enough? Seems like now you finally are.”
I stare at him, feeling rage run though me, gasoline chucked on a fire, flames igniting along every single limb. “You’re a monster,” I practically growl.
“I never said I wasn’t,” he snaps. Then he leans over to the bedside table and brings out an antique hand mirror, showing me my face. “But do you see now what your anger, what your drive to stay alive, is doing to you?”
I stare at my face.
At the crescent moons in my eyes.
