The Seeker Ch. 08

Suddenly he was gone, and she heard something sliding across the floor toward her. The whip.

The first lash tore through her skin, creamy honey split open to reveal the crimson underneath. She grunted but refused to scream. The second lash crossed the first, making a slashed X across her back. Again, she made no sound. The third and fourth slapped across her lower back and ass. The fifth and sixth cut long lines up and down her body. The seventh was her undoing. She couldn't hold back the little cry that escaped her lips. The next three were quick and brutal and he got what he wanted. She screamed. Sweat beaded across her forehead. She panted and gasped as fresh pain blasted across her back, over and over. She felt blood drip down her ass and thighs as he ripped open her skin with each brutal slap of the whip.

When her body was truly destroyed, when red lines crisscrossed her back like a spider web, when he was panting as hard as she was, he finally dropped the whip and walked to her. Her head rested on the wooden post, her limp body hung by her cut and bruised wrists. He pressed his body up against her torn back and she couldn't hold back another scream. He ground his erection against her, new pain blossoming as he rubbed himself on her fresh wounds. His breath was hot and rotten against her ear. "I knew you would scream for me, sweetheart. And oh, how delicious you sound when you scream." He ran a hand up and down her waist, making her jerk and whimper when he found the places where the whip had curled around to her sides and front. "So beautiful," he murmured against her neck, fingering the collar that had rendered her helpless.

She had tried. She had tried so hard. In the end, the only thing she could keep from him was her tears.

He would never see her cry.

She cringed as he dropped his pants and pressed his cock to her ass. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back against his shoulder. She hissed as her back arched painfully. "Let's see what screams you'll give me this time."

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Prudence crept into the small room in the upper levels where the Fae girl was being kept. The blue-eyed guard had given her a knowing look, stepping aside as she stepped in through a small slit in the doorway. Laiyla was lying face down on the small bed.

Prudence cried out.

The Fae's back was ripped apart. Blood covered her bruised bottom and thighs. It was smeared across the skin surrounding the slashes, as if someone had run their hands through them. Her body was camouflaged with bruises of differing severity. Deep purples, blues, and sickening yellows spread across her body, interrupted by bloody slashes. There wasn't an inch of her that hadn't been subjected to his depravity.

She stepped closer to the girl, careful not to startle her. She knelt down to where her face stared blankly at the wall. "Laiyla." Her voice broke. "My name is Prudence. I'm here to help."

Dull eyes glided over her, then turned back to the wall. She didn't think the Fae had even heard what she said. Tears streaming down her face, she started unpacking the small sack she had brought. She opened the jar of water and poured it into a bowl on the small table next to the bed. She dipped a small rag into the cool water and gently began cleaning the Fae's back. Laiyla lay still, hissing occasionally when she touched the deeper slashes.

When she was done cleaning, she grabbed a small jar of white salve. She took a wooden brush and dipped it into the jar, swirling it to saturate the soft bristles. Carefully, she began applying the salve to the cuts, wincing when Laiyla winced, crying out when Laiyla jerked and whimpered. Laiyla's pain was her pain. This was her fault. She had helped Damien lead her right into his trap.

She would fix this.

When she was done with the white salve, she opened another jar, this one green and pungent. Using her fingers, she rubbed it into the cuts, knowing how much it would hurt and aching for the girl who shook and trembled beneath her fingers. She finished, the jar nearly empty, and placed it back on the nightstand.

She knelt down again beside the girl's face, brushing hair across her damp forehead and tucking loose strands behind her ear. Her cheeks were wet with tears. Prudence ran her thumb across her face, drying them.

"Don't tell him," Laiyla whispered. Prudence cocked her head in confusion.

"Don't tell him I cried."

Prudence shook her head, her heart shattering. "I won't," she promised.

She stayed with her, until the salves did their work and took some the pain away, until Laiyla drifted off into fitful sleep, stroking her forehead in silent comfort.

After a while, she gathered her jars and brushes and packed them away. She stood, resolute in her decision. She put her fingers on the collar circling the Fae's slender neck, lined with bruises and bites. She fingered the closed metal eye. She stilled her mind and focused. Chanting the words she had found in the old spell book, she poured golden light into the cool metal circling the slim, honeyed neck. Her chanting grew stronger and louder, repeating the phrase over and over until a blinding light streamed from her fingers and Laiyla's eyes flew open at the feel of fire around her neck. With a final chant echoing through the small room, the latch snapped open and the collar slipped off. Prudence grabbed it, ignoring the burn on her hands, and threw it across the room. It shattered when it hit the stone wall, small pieces reflecting golden light against the ceiling like the echoes of water.

Laiyla stared at her, her eyes finally awake and fierce. Prudence looked down at her and smiled. "She's okay, you're both okay." Gently, she took Laiyla's shoulder and pushed her onto her side. Holding a hand over the Seeker's belly, she poured golden light onto her skin. Laiyla watched in wonder as the little thing inside sucked it in, absorbing it through layers of skin and bone and muscle. She felt a great pulse of energy, and then a settling feeling that snapped her back into place.

"You won't have much time when he comes for you. You can't hide it anymore with the collar off. He'll know as soon as he lays his eyes on you. Do not hesitate." Her voice was soft and quiet, and urgent.

Do not hesitate.

Why did those words sound so familiar?

Prudence straightened, adjusting her robes and gathering her small sack. Before she left, she reached into her boot, and took out a small dagger with vines wrapped around the hilt. She placed it gently on the table beside the bed. One last time, she stroked comforting fingers across the Fae's damp forehead. She bent down again, whispering into Laiyla's ear, her breath soft and silky against her skin.

"I'm on your side, Laiyla."

She stood up and silently padded out the door, giving the blue-eyed guard a look that revealed all to those who knew what to watch for.

Prudence walked down the hall, ready to face her death.

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Venlen looked out over the army that was gathered before him. Torches scattered shadows across the scarred faces of his loyal companions. How many times had they ridden together? How many times had they been willing to give their lives to end the clutching grip of Lystra's dynasty?

Her influence was far-reaching and strong. Her control over the minds of sane men turned them into bloodthirsty soldiers who would stop at nothing to kill the enemy. They used children and women as hostages and shields. Many of them died, but even more were saved when his warriors marched in to free the small towns and villages from her dark reign.

Everyone thought King Ezra was the ruler who had suppressed the kingdom, who collected enough tariffs to leave the people starving and desperate. So desperate that when Venlen came to recruit the men who had escaped Lystra's poisonous grip for his army, there was little hesitation. But Venlen knew it was Lystra who ruled, using her son as a puppet to do her bidding.

So from village to village they went, destroying Lystra's men and recruiting the soldiers who now stood before him, ready to overthrow the man they had fought so hard to put on the throne.

Damien was no longer his brother. He was a demon, no better than King Ezra, no better than Lystra. His rule could no longer be tolerated.

He would die for what he had done to Laiyla.

Amlen stood by his side, a seven-foot mass of death. Weapons hung from every inch of him. A bow was slung over his shoulder. Two battle axes sat on his belt, next to a sword and mace. Knives and daggers were tucked into pockets across his chest and sides. The man was nearly invincible, and the gods help whoever stepped in his way.

But Venlen... Venlen was much, much more dangerous.

He wore only a single sword and a hunting knife tucked into the chest of his fighting leathers. His dark eyes glimmered and shone with anticipation of the bloodbath ahead of him. He was going to cut a path straight through to his lost Fae. He had felt the bond spring to life just hours ago. It would take him right to her, come hell or high water.

His men on the inside had been preparing. Everything was planned out and ready to go. In a few short hours, the castle would be theirs, and Laiyla would be back in his arms.

And Damien's head would be on a fucking spike.

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She had wrapped a sheet around her shattered body like a dress. The fabric scratched and pulled at the wounds on her back, but she ignored the pain. Naked, she had nowhere to hide the dagger. She wasn't sure she had the strength to hold his mind long enough to do what had to be done. She needed the dagger. With the sheet wrapped around her, tied tight around her chest and slim waist, she had tucked it into the folds on her side within easy reach.

Her head pounded. She licked her lower lip, wincing when her tongue slipped over the split she had gotten from one of Damien's many, many blows. Her right eye was almost swollen shut. Bruises wrapped around her neck, the memory of being strangled into unconsciousness over and over again making her shudder. Never enough to kill her, despite how she had begged for death, but just enough to bring her to the very edge. Just enough to tip her over into unconsciousness, only to bring her back with a new way of delivering debilitating pain.

He had fucked her in every way possible. He had taken her mouth, her ass, her pussy, in every position, in every way. Every time, it tore her apart. The first time had been a mercy, allowing her that small pleasure before he split her open. It had never happened again. She had bled, and screamed, and begged. But she was true to her word. She had never cried. No matter what he did to her, no matter how many ways he knew to hurt her, she hadn't shed a single tear.

It infuriated him. It had just made it worse. She didn't care.

She sat against the wall, the lashes on her back screaming. She knew blood was seeping through the sheet. She stood vigil, watching the door. She would be ready. She would not hesitate.

Every ache reminded her of another form of torture. She was sure she had several broken ribs. He had thrown her to the floor so hard the back of her head had cracked open, spilling blood. His boot had slammed down on her chest, crushing her into the cool, polished granite floor. His face had been a deep red, his breathing had been hard and heavy as she struggled under the crushing weight of his boot. Just when she was sure a rib would snap and pierce her heart or lungs, giving her the death she craved, he had backed up, struggling with his pants to release his cock. As she struggled to catch her breath, holding a wrist she was sure was broken to her chest, he hooked a foot under her and flipped her over. He had spit in his hand, rubbing his saliva over his cock, and had shoved into her ass in one violent thrust. She had tried to scream, but her lungs couldn't pull in enough air. She had tried to claw at the polished floor, but her nails had been torn, there had been too many crushed bones in her arms, and he had clutched her waist, his nails digging deep into the fresh slashes from the whip that had wrapped around her sides. He pounded into her, tearing her apart, and she had crumbled beneath him.

She had felt the tiny pulse of energy fading, fading, until it was barely there. She had no magic, but every time he woke her with fresh pain, she had envisioned strength and light wrapping around that protected place. She was selfish, so selfish, and cowardly. But she couldn't let it die.

Then she would be completely alone.

He had kept her on her stomach afterwards, his cum seeping out of her as she rested her cheek to the cool surface beneath her, staring blankly ahead. He had dragged his hands across her back, fingering the crimson slashes. "So beautiful," he had breathed. "You're so fucking beautiful. So broken. So pure."

God, how she had wanted to cry. But she only bit her lip, drawing fresh blood, the coppery taste flooding her senses as he lifted her up and strapped her back onto the post, letting her hang from her shattered wrists as he went about his day.

How he had expected her to give him an heir with the way he kept her body bloody and broken, she had no idea. Perhaps he had forgotten his wish for a child in his frenzy to inflict pain.

She tried to focus, tried to stop thinking about the things he had done. How totally she had failed. How could she have abandoned her plans so easily? He had gotten almost everything he wanted. Yes, she had begged him for death. Yes, she had screamed. Yes, he had cracked her open and tore her apart until she had teetered on the edge of that beautiful oblivion, and the Gods help her, how she had reached for it.

But when Prudence had come to her, when she had taken away some of the pain and fractured the collar from her neck, something had flared back to life. Prudence had given something back to her she didn't even know she had lost.

Damien thought he had broken her. But he had just woken her up.

Finally, the door slid open, and the devil walked in.

Golden eyes took in the scene around him, fury clouding the measured cruelty she had become so accustomed to. He took in the shattered collar across the room, the Fae that should be unconscious and bleeding struggling to her feet, wrapped in a sheet when she should be bared for him to admire his work across her honey silk skin.

She saw the moment he recognized the burst of energy she felt deep inside of her, as if in response to his scorching eyes tearing through her. She watched as his face morphed across a spectrum of emotions. First understanding, then fury, then hatred, then determination. She knew what was coming.

She was ready.

He was nothing like his brother. When he stomped toward her, she clawed into his mind with all the strength she could muster, with all the magic she had access to. It was so easy, too easy. Behind all the pain, behind the evil, he was weak. It was the source of all his rage, this weakness. She had searched his soul, and he was found wanting.

His gaze darkened and dulled. She could feel his resistance, could feel him raging and fighting her raking claws, but it was buried deep and easily ignored. She stepped toward him slowly, the cuts on her feet slowing her pace. Another gift from the man in front of her. A cruel joke when he had brought her a vase of purple orchids, had made her touch the delicate blooms, had stroked her face as he told her how a beautiful girl deserved beautiful flowers. Then he had chuckled softly and tossed the vase to the floor, broken glass and water and flowers scattering across the swirling marble. She had closed her eyes as she listened to the sounds of glass crunching below his boots. A tug at the leather bonds on her wrists had jerked her forward. "Walk with me, sweetheart," he had whispered into her ear.

And here stood the bastard who had taught her how to endure the pain she felt as she crept toward him. A small prod to his mind had him on his knees in before her.

Beg, she told him. Beg me for your life.

His hands came up in supplication. "Please, Laiyla. Let me live." His voice was trembling, pathetic.

Then she heard it. A silky sound that wrapped around her broken skin, wove through the hair that had been pulled and yanked, slid along her split lip, wrapped around her bruised neck. A song. A beautiful song.

She pulled the dagger from the folds of her makeshift gown. The blade burned white, a glowing, iridescent, pulsing light. Eila's necklace grew hot around her neck, the silver leaf pendent almost scorching her skin. She held it in her palm and closed her eyes.

It was a mistake.

Somehow, she lost her grip. Her strength faltered, her sharp claws and talons, grasped so tightly around his mind, slipped out. The devil roared and lunged. She fell back, her head slamming against the floor as he flattened her with his massive, pudgy body.

His eyes went wide. Something warm and thick flowed over her fingers. He grunted as she twisted her hand, wrenching the dagger lodged in his gut. She kicked and shoved, his dead weight crushing her small body. Finally, he fell to her side, and she gasped and gagged, trying to catch her breath. She crawled to her hands and knees and peered at the devil as blood gurgled in his mouth and his eyes popped wide and unbelieving. Her dagger was still lodged in his gut, a pool of blood spreading across his velvety robes.

She wasn't sure she would be strong enough. Her left wrist hung useless at her side. She gulped air into her crushed lungs. Something had given her temporary strength, and she wasn't about to waste it.

She scrambled over to him, climbing the body that had broken her own so totally. She straddled his hips and grabbed the threaded hilt of the blade. With a hard yank, she pulled it free, and he jerked and bucked under her. She stared down at him, locking eyes with the man who would have kept her and hurt her forever, who had been about to cut her unborn child out of her belly. She leaned forward, close enough to whisper softly in his ear, the way he had done so many times, right before he brought her fresh agony.

"You want to hear me scream, Damien? I'll scream for you, one more fucking time. It'll be my little parting gift." Chocolate brown eyes, dull without their ring of demon gold, looked up at her in terror. She winked at him and sat up.

She raised the dagger, and let out all of her anger, all of her fear, all of her devastation in a blood curdling scream. His eyes popped out, wide with fear, as she brought the dagger down, plunging it between his ribs and deep into his heart. He jerked and stiffened, and finally...finally, he stilled. Blood ran out of his mouth in burgundy rivulets. Her hands were coated red as it pumped out of the wound beneath her fingers. She stared down at him in stunned silence.

Slowly, she crawled off him. On her hands and knees, she struggled to breathe. She pulled in short gasps, choked with the sobs she had held back for so long, through so much. Her arm clutched her stomach and she fell to her side, bile climbing up her throat as she stared vacantly at the felled demon.

A silken hand caressed her cheek. She looked up and saw herself, her other self, the girl who had visited her in her cell, keeping her alive. "We did it," the girl whispered. Laiyla smiled and rolled onto her stomach, pressing her cheek into the cool stone of the floor. She faced away from the bleeding bastard, turning toward the door that had locked her in whenever he had grown tired of having her in his presence.