Rapture by L.V. Lane
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Winter
“I WANT TO see him,” I say.
“That would be ill-advised,” Blue says. My ever vigilant Chosen has been my only visitor these past few days. Even the king does not visit, nor does the sweet fairy child, Melody.
“I need to see him.”
He sighs, rising from his chair in a sinuous movement that my eyes want to skitter away from. “I will arrange it,” he says.
Shortly after, servants arrive with food. I eat only a little, having no appetite.
A dress is laid over the bottom of my bed while I play with the food. I have not worn a dress in many days. The whimsical creation of blue silk and lace does not feel like it belongs to me anymore.
Done with the food, I bathe before the servant helps me into the dress. Standing before the mirror, I stare at the stranger there.
I would give anything to turn back time. To nestle upon Jacob’s lap in nothing but a slave dress. To feel his big, rough hands gently wrap a strip of blanket around my throat to protect it against the harsh iron collar.
To hear his purr.
To breathe his scent into my lungs.
To taste his salty essence upon my tongue.
To feel his strong body cage mine as he ruts me over the rough cage wagon floor.
To give him my blood.
This beautiful dress does not become me. I should be wearing rags.
The servant bows. “The guards will take you now, mistress, if you are ready.”
I am not ready, but I have asked for this. Despite the pain I anticipate at seeing him, my soul needs this to be done.
Outside my chamber, a pair of warriors wait for me. Like a prisoner, I am escorted, my boots ringing against the flagstones as we walk the corridors. We do not go to the lower levels where the warriors are housed but higher, up winding staircases and into the highest tower of Sanctum.
A warrior pauses at the door. At my nod, he throws it open without so much as a knock.
I step through, and it closes behind me with a click.
He lies upon the bed as though asleep. My steps ring unbearably loud in the silent room as I approach. A slim strip of cloth covers his crotch area, leaving his upper body and legs exposed. His eyes are closed, chest rising and falling in steady breaths. Even in repose, he is the image of a warrior, his beautiful body covered in thousands of cuts.
They still weep in places. Those would be the worst, the ones where the surgeons used their tools to probe at delicate internal organs. They would cause the most pain, worse even than the vivid bruising and pink scars from the beatings meted out to him between the surgeon’s work.
I swallow, fighting the urge to empty the small amount of food I consumed.
He will still need a lot of blood.
He will need a lot of my blood.
Panic claws up from the place I buried it many human lifetimes ago.
The younger version of me was sweet and trusting.
And the younger version of me was drained near to death by a rogue warrior.
A sense of helplessness invades me that I find myself full circle. The desire to flee this room and Sanctum is strong, even knowing I have nowhere to go.
I made a vow never to let such a fate befall me again, yet that future is bearing down upon me with starling speed.
I swore that I would never experience that vulnerability again, yet here I am, on the precipice of my own doom.
His eyes open. They glisten with unnatural fervor as they turn to rest upon me.
Pain?Yes, considerably.
Hunger?Definitely due to his obvious abstinence from healing blood.
Anticipation of my looming downfall? For certain.
This version of Jacob is a cold, dark stranger to me. The humor and grace he once possessed, even in our most desperate moments, is gone. I would weep were I not cold and dead myself.
What have they done to him?
What have they taken from him?
What have they made him into with their cruel tools and torture?
“What do you want?” His voice is roughened to gravel and speaks of damage the eyes cannot see.
This isn’t all due to the wicked surgeons. What he has become is also on me.
I despise myself for the part I have played in breaking this once noble man and warrior. Like the inspection of an open wound, my mind strays to wondering how he might be with other Blood, Breeders, and Feeders. Playful, yet dominant, and the kind of man who would lay down his life to protect his ward, even without a bond.
Somewhere along the journey of my life, I have become the kind of monster I had once run from.
I swallow against the dry lump in my throat.
“I wanted to see you,” I say. There is more I should offer. An apology would certainly be a start, yet how can I begin to apologize for this? Clemency maybe? Tell him my sad story, that it might justify my actions?
“To fucking lord over my breaking?”
“No,” I say softly. My fears have driven me to be immeasurably cruel. Which, in turn, has been the catalyst for creating this emotionless man lying upon the bed. I was a good person once, had values and morals, and was attuned to my inner compass.
Leander broke me. Now, I have broken a good man.
A good man who is about to break me, once again.
Only this time, I deserve it.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
His face twists as he emits a savage snarl. I thought he was weakened, but he rises, and his hand shackles my throat.
He squeezes.
My fingers claw at his as I wheeze for vital air. His strength over me, even in this state of injury, is staggering. Tears pool in my eyes, and the sounds emerging from my constricted throat are the dreadful sounds of death. But as the dots begin to swim before my eyes, I force myself to surrender and let my clawing fingers drop away.
He flings me aside as though disgusted by the touch. I sink to my knees, gasping hoarse breaths into my lungs. My throat aches, the violence of his action sure to leave bruises.
Even in this savage, broken form, a warrior would have to fight deep instincts against the binding to harm a Blood Omega.
“Even dying, you know how to play a warrior,” he says.
Is that what he thinks I am doing? Playing him? He should be writhing in agony touching me with violence, but the binding must have sensed I wished for all he did.
“I deserve to die,” I say, my voice as tight and raw as my throat. Shaking, I force myself to my feet. Straightening out my gown takes unnecessary importance to my scattered mind.
“You don’t get to choose,” he says.
My eyes shoot to meet his. Even my right to death is forfeit, it would seem.
The circle is complete. Before me is a demon of my own making, crafted carefully from my own shattered soul, one cruelty at a time.
His gaze lowers to my throat. It is swelling, and I fight the urge to test the tenderness of the flesh.
“Leave,” he says, turning his head away. “I will not see you again until they finally rip the binding away.”
Coming here was a grave mistake.
Turning, I flee, running past guards, heels clattering against flagstones, until I am back at my room. Here, I tear the pretty dress from my body, uncaring that I bruise my flesh in the process. I fall upon the bed, sobbing the tears I have kept at bay. Fingers around my tender throat, I pretend his hand is still there, trying to cling to the memory of his scent.
Here, in this wretched state, I drift into a dreamless sleep.
