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“Is it so unusual to you?” I ask him, perhaps out of turn. “You live in the wilderness and maul your prey, taking whatever you want for yourself. You don’t see this kind of behavior often?”
“In myself, no,” he growls. “I wasn’t aware of any desire to breed until recently. And even though I see creatures in the wilderness taking mates often, it doesn’t usually end well for them if it’s not offered willingly.”
I want to prod him for an explanation, but I don’t get the chance.
He moves in closer to me, caressing my cold shoulder, and growls.
“They will pay for harming you like that,” he says insistently. “For touching what’s mine, they’re going to suffer.”
Before I can object, he continues. “You know that you’re mine, don’t you?”
And for some reason when I nod a third time, this time I feel that intimidation isn’t what’s motivating me.
For some reason – maybe it’s some hypnotic agent when he moves in to lightly nibble my shoulder, introducing a toxin into my bloodstream, or maybe it just feels right – I don’t fight him this time.
It’s a different kind of ownership, I reassure myself.
For four days, I tell myself that this is different and that I’m not moving from one captor to another. During that time, I notice a gentler temperament to Zyranth, as though the monster in my past is a distant memory that only resurfaces on rare occasions, when I fight him or when we argue. Though arguments are few and far between.
He still threatens me if I try to leave, but now I know it might be for my own safety. He sometimes leaves the cave briefly to check on the situation above, discovering patrolling dark elves. Zyranth knows that the world above isn’t currently safe for me and that I would be jeopardizing myself if I leave.
Three days ago, he took notice of my hunger.
“Why aren’t you eating your food?” he asks me, nudging the mangled chiroptera in my general direction.
I look at the creature, its wings flayed apart, organs sticking out. I have not eaten anything he had given me since arriving in the cavern, much to his continued frustration. But on this occasion, he is a bit more willing to listen.
“Just not hungry I guess,” I lie.
“I can sense your hunger. I can hear your stomach rumbling,” he says. “You need to eat.”
He stamps closer to me, then lifts me up from the ground where I sit before the ‘food’. Standing a mere few inches away from me, he lifts my head so that my eyes are looking into his, staring into me with those piercing, golden eyes.
“What do I need to do to get you to eat?” he asks me. “I can find an elf from above and drag it down here for you.”
“No!” I say a bit too loudly, before calming myself to not arouse his anger or suspicion. “That’s okay. This will be fine.”
I try to bite into the creature, but as I shovel a piece of the raw meat into my mouth, my stomach churns, and I have to spit it out.
Expecting the full brunt of his wrath, I try to crawl away backward from him. But as he watches me, he instead flaps his wings, looking down in my direction.
“Stay here,” he tells me, taking to the distant passage upward through the cavern.
I wonder if perhaps I’m not being grateful… if I should have attempted to stomach the creature instead. But it doesn’t look safe for a human to consume, and I can’t trust his knowledge of our anatomy and physiology to keep me safe.
He arrives moments later with two seared steaks on wooden plates, placing them before me. I see them collide with the messy chiroptera on landing, and there is no silverware to speak of, but I’m too hungry to care.
I shovel the steak into my mouth, ripping into the fat and gristle and savoring the tender meat as it crosses over my tongue. There’s just a little bit of blood, but it’s got the perfect juiciness. Oddly, it’s still hot.
“Where did you get these?” I ask him, still shoving the steak into my mouth in a pale imitation of how desperately Zyranth consumes his prey.
They are very decently sized. Despite starving for a full day and a half, I have to admit this is enough. Not only is this the best meal I’ve had in seven years, it might actually fill me up completely.
“Never you mind that,” he tells me.
I eye him suspiciously, realizing that he probably killed two escaping humans above to retrieve these steaks.
“Do humans always char their meat to enjoy it better?” he asks me.
