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No, no. No! Flashes of red carved out my sight as I dropped to my knees, the hard cobblestones chewing into my flesh.
Before my head hit the ground, I had one final thought.
If this was what dying felt like . . .
I only wanted to do it once.
When I awoke, my body was bombarded with a variety of aches and pains. I groaned. The pressure in my head was the worst of them all. Gods and goddesses, why did everything have to throb?
I forced my unwilling, traitorous lids open.
Dull, flickering candlelight illuminated dark, unfamiliar surroundings. A medium-sized bed, which I was currently lying on, encumbered the small room. To my right was a tall dresser—a couple of black and silver rings carelessly scattered on top—and on the other side of it, a closed door. At the far end of the room was a closet, the bilateral doors with wood slats tightly closed. To my left, a window, the blackout drapes pulled shut. And although they were made of a thick navy fabric, where daylight should have trickled through the seams, it did not.
Realization hit me—it was some time after dark.
How long had I been out?
And where in the Spirit Realm was I?
My heartbeat quickened its trot. Although I was not under the bed’s blankets, there was a light blanket thrown over top of me. I slid it off and scrambled to stand, but the room swirled, so I plopped back down and closed my eyes, willing my brain to restore control over my cumbersome body. After a minute or two, I determinedly licked my lips and tried again. Slowly, I tested gravity’s pull before I stood up. Thankfully, the spinning stopped.
So far, so good.
I slunk towards the window and cascaded the drape to the side. A row of houses stood across the street, their cracked, sparse clay rooftops bathed in the light of the moon. The problem with clay rooftops? They were a far cry from the cedar shakes used in the village I knew. I swallowed, my bones riddled with unease . . . I was not in Meristone anymore.
I surveyed my surroundings, searching for anything I could use as a weapon. My search stopped when I got to the top of the dresser. There, I spied a heavy-bottomed brass candle holder.
That would do.
My fingers wrapped around the neck of the candlestick—the hefty bottom turned upwards as I cracked open the door and peered into the dark and empty hall. Maybe I was alone? My gut grumbled in doubt. Heeding its warning, I dared a step forward, and then another as I slowly made my way down the hall, my booted heel soundless against the carpeted floor. A door to my left was closed.
My fingers itched . . . What was inside?
I smothered that dangerous urge. Curiosity be damned—I knew what happened to the cat.
The hallway led to a string of steep stairs going down, a set of seven runs, a small landing, and then eight more that jutted to the side. I sucked in a breath as I tested my weight on the first one—thankfully, no protest—not a squeak. When I made it to the step above the landing, I peeked around the wall.
I sucked in my breath.
A demon of a man—shirtless and dangerously built, with wild, long onyx hair—had his back turned to me. His back was chiseled in lean, steely muscle—built for lethal movements, the kind that only took one swing.
The tattoos that adorned his back were mostly black, but a select few contained a small dose of color. Some of the tattoos lapped lazily over the others, like they were an afterthought upon a canvas that was running out of room. But despite the chaos, it was a work of art. The ink did not taper at his narrow waist, but instead slipped underneath his pants, slung loosely at his hips. I wondered how far those tattoos went down.
I rolled my eyes at myself.Stop ogling your abductor,idiot.
Was that an apple tattooed on his forearm?
Focus.
Right.
The room slowly began to seep into my vision. The kitchen was nothing to boast about, although it was a step up from the cottage. Shoe-weathered wooden planks lined the floors, and reddish-brown cupboards with oval brass knobs hung on the walls. A rectangular table with worn edges sat in the middle. To the far left, an open doorway led to another room, which I presumed to be the living room, judging by the tasseled edges of a rug that I could just barely make out.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
He diced something on a cutting board, rhythmic strokes of pressure being applied before the knife slipped through and bit into the wood beneath. Nowthiswas a sight—a male whose body was built like a war god was in the kitchen—cooking? How very . . . domestic. And so very strange—men typically didn’t cook.
I . . . didn’t mind the sight.
