Frost to Dust by Myra Danvers
3
Dinner started with drinks. The elites spoke of the war as if they didn’t have the people of a conquered nation at their feet, as if Eloran slaves weren’t flitting about, clearing plates and refreshing drinks.
As if a former Head Priestess of the Tritan faith wasn’t strapped to a cross, whipped, gagged, and humiliated.
And yet, there I knelt, shaking with so much impotent fury, without even the luxury of the captain’s influence to force me still.
He’d released me. Left me kneeling there, smothered in a cloud of arrogant, elite oppression. Knowing I hadn’t the courage to defy him in company such as this.
Above me, General Tilcot tossed the remnants of his glass back, swallowing with a hum. “What happened to your unit, Rawlings? I heard you lost ground.”
An indulgent sigh spilled from the captain’s lips. “We did,” he admitted. “The rebels managed to hit us with a few explosive charges at shift change.” He shrugged, though his eyes went flat and hard. Wary, I assumed, of a trap with gilded jaws. “Nothing but a few injured men, though…” Pausing long enough to sip at a tumbler of amber liquid, he added, “It could have been much worse, of course.” Absently, he stroked my hair. Gentle, despite the snag of callouses catching at my roots. Making my scalp dance. “Incidentally, that’s why I was looking for a new girl in the first place.” A sinister chuckle skated along my nape, igniting my temper. “Nothing inspires a soldier to work harder than access to high-quality pussy, which is something my men seem to have forgotten.”
“I heard she was a dreadful sight when you got her,” said an elegant woman seated across the table. Most of her face left hidden from my vantage point on the floor, until she shifted forward. Inspecting me down the length of a narrow, aristocratic nose. A perfect coil of gleaming, ebon thick hair positioned to cover her right breast. “Was she to be a punishment for your men? Or are the common folk really so desperate that they’ll stoop as low as… that.”
At this, the captain smirked and turned his attention down. To me. Swirling the amber liquid in his glass, he watched me from eyes gone dark as pitch, and said, “Mila, how long did you live in the forest?”
Insulted, feelings hurt, I let my glare fall to the cushion beneath my knees and mumbled, “I don’t know.”
The elegant woman sneered. “Honestly, Asher. I don’t understand your tolerance for such blatant disrespect. A man of your up-and-coming station deserves much better,” she purred, making it impossible for anyone to mistake her intentions toward Captain Asher Rawlings.
“Nonsense, Carina,” he returned with a smile, all the while those fingers remained tangled in my hair. Petting… stroking with an absent-minded compulsion. “Mila’s testing her limits, that’s all. All new slaves need to figure out what they can and can’t get away with,” he said and refreshed her glass. “Now, Mila, I’ll ask again. How old were you when you fled the Empire?”
I shook off his touch with a jerk of my shoulders. “Eighteen.”
“And how old are you now?” he purred, and merely continued to stroke through the silky, well-groomed locks he couldn’t seem to get enough of.
A sneer curled at the edge of my lips. “I don’t know,” I said, enunciating every word.
Carina scoffed, but with a patronizing smirk the captain pressed on. “Let’s try something different, hmm? When did you flee Elora?”
Confusion bunched between my brows. “I didn’t,” I replied. “I’m Tritan”—I seized a handful of that hated, silver-blonde hair, shaking it with a flick of my wrist that glittered with the stamp of gold, the mark of a bound priestess—“remember?”
It was his turn to frown, and he lurched forward to cup my chin in strong fingers. To make me look, when he said, “You left Tritan?” with genuine surprise etched across his face. “Mila…” He shook his head. “We conquered Tritan five years ago. Have you been in the forest all that time?”
I blinked at the news, but that was all. Concealing my shock behind lax facial muscles and a wall of simmering spite.
The general laughed, boisterous and loud. “Five years of filth would indeed be adequate motivation to get results out of the rabble!”
And as if given permission, the rest of the diners followed suit. Elite laughter echoing all around me. Sending heat to flood my cheeks, filling my chest with mortified shame.
“Ah,” the general sighed, and sat back. Hands clasped in his lap as a wall of Eloran slaves emerged from the kitchens, laden with trays of steaming food. “Dinner is served.”
Stomach rumbling, I couldn’t help the way my mouth watered. The tilt of my head as I tried to catch the scent of Eloran cooking—a beloved staple of my upbringing, and one I was suddenly aching to try again.
But the instant the first silver lid was lifted, my heart plummeted.
“I haven’t had a good steak in months,” the captain said, grinning at a plate swimming in blood, butter, and garlic.
Dejected, I sank back into my cushion.
“I was getting rather tired of rations myself,” another replied. The jealous man, who’d paid half a million for the honor of putting a Tritan priestess on her knees.
“Don’t fast on my account!” the general said, flicking his utensils at the elites before cutting into his steak with a flourish. “Dig in.”
Resigned to yet another hungry, sleepless night, I scowled at my chains. Digging a fingernail at the seam of gold and flesh, just to feel the nip of pain. To wallow when I was unable to act.
Fingers cascaded through my hair. “I really shouldn’t be rewarding your behavior with steak,” the captain said, “but you’ll need the energy. Eat.”
Startled, I glanced up to find the captain’s free hand outstretched. Between his fingers, a slab of lightly charred flesh, dripping in grease.
Mouth flooding with sour spittle, I cringed back and said, “No, thank you, sir,” with all the learned courtesy of a high-born, Tritan lady.
The captain sighed, one brow cocked as he pinned me with a dark glare. “Must you fight me at every turn?” He pushed the strip of steak closer to my lips. Insistent. “Eat.”
“Sir, I’d really rather not,” I whispered, trying to convey my disgust. To beg him for mercy in this, if nothing else.
“And as I’ve already made clear, I don’t care what you’d rather do, Mila. Eat, or I’ll strap you up on the cross beside Sasha.”
I lurched back, scrambling to a ready crouch, and hissed, “Then I’ll take the whipping!”
For a moment, the captain was silent as I scowled at the offensive offering. Sweat beading across my brow as our whispered argument began to draw unwelcome attention.
And then, “What issue could you possibly have with steak?” the captain asked, baffled enough that his glare grew soft and hazy with confusion.
I swallowed, cheeks heating as I tried to hold his gaze. “I don’t eat meat.”
A cold bark of laughter burst from his lips. “You mean to tell me you’re a vegetarian with teeth like that?”
“Please…” Creeping forward, I dared to touch his ankle. Content with playing the submissive if it meant I might win this one small battle. “Please… don’t make me eat it,” I whispered, staring at him with what might pass for reverence. Artful tears pooled along my lash line, threatening to spill down my cheeks. The very picture of fragile femininity.
Something wicked gleamed at the back of his eyes, and he stroked the side of my face with calloused fingers. “Mmm. It’s not quite the begging I had in mind, but beautiful nevertheless. Unfortunately,” he said, “what you eat is no longer your concern. We can talk about your dietary privileges when you learn to behave.”
A sneer shattered my dainty mask, and without bothering to hide my disdain, I said, “Over my stinking, bloated corpse.”
“It seems,” the general hummed, watching me down the length of his nose, “our wildcat needs a touch more than idle threats to garner true obedience.”
The captain went stiff, his touch growing tight and hot where it sank into the meat of my shoulder.
“But what to do,” the general mused, setting his utensils aside, “for the slave who doesn’t fear physical repercussions, hmm?” He laced his fingers together and hid a smirk behind steepled fingers. “A slave so willing to throw herself in harm’s way can’t be controlled with mere threats of violence. Oh, no. She needs a stronger hand. Something precious to lose, for the little martyr who’d sacrifice herself to spare another.” He clapped those large hands, and drew the attention of every last man and slave present in the dining hall. “Ah, of course”—he cast about, scanning the room as if lost in thought—“Captain Rawlings, every moment of further disobedience from our girl earns… Sasha ten lashes. I feel that’s fitting, no?”
“N-no!” I cried, aghast. Horrified and cold, right down to the middle.
“No?” The general smirked, and it was a predatory thing that made the hair at my nape bristle. “Twenty, then. Unless you’d prefer thirty? Though”—dark brows climbed toward the general’s hairline—“I’ll admit, I’m growing leery of your thirst for seeing my Sasha marked! Quite the vicious little thing we’ve got, Asher my boy!”
Nausea swirled in my gut, burning the back of my tongue. And for a moment, I could do little else but sit and stare. Unblinking. Unable to breathe under the weight of such cruelty.
Utterly without options.
Swallowing a sob, I snatched the soggy bit of meat from the captain’s fingers and popped it into my mouth without giving myself a moment to really think.
Warm.
Juicy.
A chunk of fatty grizzle crunched between my molars.
I gagged, eyes squeezed shut. Stomach heaving at the sensation of bloody, half-cooked flesh sliding down the back of my throat. Of sinew caught between my teeth. The rich scent that invaded my sinuses and left a film of grease thick and tacky on my lips.
“Oh, come on, Mila!” the captain said, his laugh a deep rumble of pure amusement, echoed by the rest of the elites and their women. “It’s not half as bad as all that!”
I swallowed.
Heaved.
Swallowed again, and pulled a breath through gaping jaws. “I hate you,” I whispered, low enough that no one but he heard above the ringing laughter.
But he merely smirked, placing another slice of steak on his tongue, eyes closing on a groan of pleasure. Mocking me.
I gagged again, panting, the taste still lingering on my pallet. And, violated in a way I had never thought possible, angry tears threatened to spill over my lashes.
But I’d done it. Without complaint.
Sasha wouldn’t be torn up by an elite with a whip, cursing my name through tears and a gag.
“Mila, darling.” He said it in a song. The captain cooing in the tone of one already drunk on victory. Gloating.
Breath catching, I turned watery eyes up to find his fingers already laden with another strip of steak. One rarer than what had come before. Thicker with glossy ribs of muscle severed with a serrated blade.
With trembling fingers, I reached for the next bite.
“Ah,” he breathed, and pulled it back. “No, pet. Slaves take nourishment from their master’s hand.”
Incredulous, I met his eye—and shivered at what I saw there.
The hunger.
A thing I recognized from that night in his office. Something I’d felt in the slick glide of work-hard fingers, in the ragged breath on my nape as he—
Unable to break from the look in those inky black depths, I leaned forward. Plucking the steak from his fingers with the edge of pointed teeth. Careful not to touch his skin. Not to encourage the flare of elite flames looking for fuel.
Chewing as fast as I could manage, I swallowed it nearly whole and choked when it stuck in my throat.
But the captain would not be deterred. “Lick,” he purred when my tongue lolled out in distress.
I shook my head, staring at the bend in my knees. At the dark silk of the pillow placed there just for me. In anticipation of my surrender.
His touch landed on my lips, leaving the choice to me.
Obey, and swallow the taste of my unsalvageable dignity as it was left in pitiful tatters, or bear the weight of Sasha’s whipping—and be forced to eat the meat anyway.
Smothering a sob, I took his fingers into my mouth and sucked until they were clean. Until all I could taste was salt and man. Straining not to think of where those fingers had been, what they’d done…
What they’d made me do.
“Good girl,” the captain rumbled, tilting my chin back so I might see the need smoldering in his eyes and know he was remembering too.
Planning.
He continued to feed me as the evening progressed, taking care to pass me dainty, bite-sized strips. Insisting I lick his fingers clean between morsels, while I tried not to make a meal of his flesh and bone. To think only of Sasha and the leverage the general wielded with such careless ease.
It wasn’t long before the dull thrum of conversation faded into the background. Before something deep inside me began to revolt against the surge of fatty protein churning in my gut. My ears were ringing, my cheeks flushed and hot, and when a fist of pain blossomed in my stomach, it was with a profound knowledge that all hope for salvaging what remained of my dignity had run dry.
“Drink,” the captain said with a frown. Mild concern etched across that dark brow.
With trembling fingers, I accepted the glass, draining it in one long pull.
Carina rolled her eyes, ankles crossing beneath the table. The flash of red heeled shoes sparkled beneath the table. “Are all your slaves this much work?”
“No,” he replied with a laugh. “It seems Mila will require a significant amount of attention, but then, she isn’t one of my regular slaves, is she?”
A cold sweat broke out on my brow, signaling imminent disaster. And with trembling fingers, I tapped the captain’s thigh once more.
He brushed my hand away.
“You know,” Carina said, licking the full bow of her lower lip. One of those red heels darting between his ankles, only to slide up. A slow caress that glided from the captain’s ankle to his knee. Inching closer to his inseam. “I’ve never understood the appeal of owning a pleasure slave.”
“No?” he answered, offering a bland smile.
Shaking her head, Carina sipped at her drink. “A man of a conquered nation couldn’t possibly compare to a full-blooded Caledonian, much less an elite,” she purred. And then, as Eloran slaves brought around plates of dessert, she slipped a dainty foot free of her red stiletto. Slipping it between the captain’s knees, where one slim ankle made to caress the inside of this thigh.
It was too much.
Without much warning at all, nausea bubbled up the back of my throat. My distress going utterly unnoticed in the face of Carina’s sickly-sweet charm.
Ribs heaving with force enough to crack bone, I vomited. Expelling my steak dinner in a gush of vile chunks all over Carina’s pretty red heels.
It filled the empty shoe, splashed between her toes when she recoiled with a caw of shock. And then, when she launched herself back from the table, she slipped in the warm, slick bile—launching her shin straight into the cross beam supporting the table legs with a thunk that clattered silverware and made glass dance.
Outraged, in pain, Carina shrieked her horror. Her eyes bulging from that beautiful, flushed face. An uneven limp sending her careening away from the table when the reality of what I’d done began to sink in.
“You disgusting little bitch!” she screamed, hands clenched at her sides. Gait uneven as she pranced in place. A bruise already blooming on her shin.
I wiped the back of my mouth, watching her without daring to blink. Braced for the strike.
“Fucksakes, Mila,” the captain hissed, and drew me to my feet. Offering a serviette in one hand, another glass of water in the other. “Are you alright?”
I shrugged, eyes following Carina as a flock of slaves fluttered around her. Cleaning and primping. “I tried to tell you,” I whispered, humiliated despite how much better I felt. My stomach relieved, my system flushed with adrenaline.
The captain snorted. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose you did.”
“Well,” the general said, then stood. Chair scraping on the polished tile floor, he folded his serviette with careful, precise movements, and said, “Seems to be a reasonable place to call an end to the festivities. Captain Rawlings,” he added, voice thick with the ring of authority, “I expect to see you at headquarters for an assessment of your newfound power. Bright and early.”
“Sir.” The captain’s jaw flexed at the corner, his chin dipping in a tight nod, he took the back of my neck in the palm of his hand. Fingers almost touching where my throat worked around a tense swallow. “My apologies,” he said, addressing the gathered elites with a tense little smile. “It seems it’s not so simple to take the wildcat out of the forest, after all.”
I blushed, chased from the dining hall from another round of condescending male laughter. My nape soaked through with humiliation as the captain drove me from the general’s manse. Where the last of Tritan’s priestesses knelt in supplication, unable to so much as lift their eyes, their fires were banked with a thick layer of frost.
Strides long and sure, the captain gave me no chance to collect myself until we were well away from the suffocating fog of stolen elite power.
But there, beneath it all, I was flushed with an odd sense of victory. For despite everything—the threats and the lurking, ever-present danger—I had managed to do something profound, no matter how disgusting.
A slimy, chunky victory, but a victory nevertheless.