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Iva bends to scoop up the Morganite blade, locating it as if the prosthetics were real.
“I think your clothing is the least of your worries, dear,” she warns, her Irish lilt setting my teeth on edge. She tosses the blade from one hand to the other, taunting me. “What you should be worried about is that pesky Aegis taint you have in your blood. I’ve worked very hard to eradicate that irksome little faction. I’ll not have it passing down your line. Oh. That’s right, there won’t be anyone else in your line, now, will there? No matter.” She shrugs as the knife’s tip touches the skin of my inner thigh.
It doesn’t break the skin, only indents the flesh as she glides the blade down my leg. I try my best not to shake, but fear—fuck—it makes me lose myself.
“Now, do I bleed it out of you?” Iva muses. “Or do I use other ways to rid you of that blasted power?” Her eyes squint in consideration, her red-painted mouth screwing up to the side.
I’m pretty sure whatever way she chooses, I’m not going to like it.
Being known for tossing spells around like candy, Iva is not the woman I want experimenting on me. She sets the knife down and places her slender hands against the skin of my face.
Nope. Don’t like this already.
When the chanting starts, I can’t focus on anything else but the pain. It’s like being covered in fire ants, or battery acid, or fire—if fire could actually burn me. Iva’s fingertips dig into my cheeks, gouging my skin, the bite of it almost pleasurable compared to whatever spell she’s casting.
I can’t think.
I can’t breathe.
All I can do is lay there and pray this agony isn’t killing Rhys, too.
I wake up in the gray, sterile, room from Hell—again—seriously contemplating how many times I’m going to pass out in this hellhole.
At least I’m alone.
My cotton-filled head is blissfully without pain, though. That or those particular receptors in my noggin decided to say, “fuck it” and bailed on me while I was passed out. Either way, I’m counting it as a win.
I take advantage of my numbed state and dislocate my left thumb.
Nothing. No pain at all.
Groggily, I hope Rhys isn’t the recipient of it all. That would suck. I shimmy the cuff off and pop my thumb back into place. Bringing my arms down, I shake the blood back into them. While I can’t feel pain right now, I do notice the muted, pins-and-needles sensation of the loss of circulation.
Now I have the arduous task of stretching my body off this table to attempt to reach the downed soldier on the floor. He’s lying in a lump where he stumbled away near the end of the table, wearing the traditional garb of a steel breastplate held on by straps of leather and leather combat skirt.
That’s it. No under clothing, no tunic, nada.
I always thought it was a waste to have the soldiers dressed as eye candy when the oracles were blind.
The key to the shackles is clipped to the leather-studded belt holding his skirt up. I feel the chain pulling on my ankle, but I’m not bleeding, so I figure all’s well.
Just. One. More. Inch.
Fumbling the keys, I manage to catch them before they fall. Now I get to do the semi-hilarious half-crab walk back on the table. Out of the shackles within seconds, I stand, getting my first real look at myself. I’m practically a horror movie reject in my blood-covered bra and panties.
If my friends could see me now, I’d likely get laughed at for days. My thoughts go to them, and I hope everyone is okay. I scoop up the blade and quietly pad over to the door, the adrenaline of impending freedom waking me up a little bit.
The door is unlocked, but I shove the keys into my bra for lack of a better place to put them, snatch the Morganite blade from the table, and make my way toward the light. The hallway is at odds with the cell I just vacated. The rich wood paneling is tastefully adorned with paintings older than Iva. Several doors line the corridor, and my biggest fear is someone walking out of one of them, catching me before I can get the fuck out of here.
The silhouette of a figure moving up ahead casts against the wood, but before they see me, I move into the shadow of a doorway. The small inlet in the wood is not quite enough space for me to hide, though. Then he turns the corner, moving down the corridor, shooting a glance over his shoulder. Even with his face half-turned away from me, I recognize him.
It’s tough to forget someone stabbing you in the chest—that’s for sure.
Javier saunters closer, and blindly, I reach behind me, praying the hinges are silent. My back to the opening, I thank whatever deity I need to that the door was unlocked.
Glancing around in the darkness, I see almost nothing. No movement, no breathing. The smell is awful, though, as if someone or something has died here. I step farther into the gloom but leave the door ajar. Javier is moving toward me, and I’m sure he’ll come to investigate either the smell or the cracked door at some point.
Sure enough, he stops at the entrance to this cell. I don’t blink—I don’t even breathe as I wait for him to cross the threshold. Tightening my grip on the blade, my impending vengeance curls my mouth into a gruesome smile, and I’m still grinning when he walks fully into the room. Keeping the feral pull to my mouth, I efficiently cut off his head before turning him to ash.
