She was no longer just dealing with a human. That much she knew. Still, she could not understand what this creature meant. He'd called herAnam. “Who are you?” Nymiria asked.
Brandt had her cornered now, his sneer a twisted mimicry of the smile he was trying to procure. “I have been sent to kill you, Nymiria. The Witch Queen sends her regards.” He tilted his head to one side, his elongated fingers with sharp nails now brushing over the skin of her shoulders, leaving nothing but burning pain in their wake.
Her breaths quickened, her heart rate accelerating as she pulled the dagger from its sheath. Though the creature in front of her knew the blade was at her side, it didn’t move away from the blow. She drove the dagger down into his neck, eyes going wide as she watched the creature howl and yelp—his form shifting from that of The Duke of Fairnam to something hunched with hooves and horns, two elongated tusks curving up from the bottom row of sharpened teeth.
But no sooner than the beast writhed in pain did he right himself, ripping her dagger from his neck and tossing it into the mass of vines beneath them. The bulbs and seeds crunched under his feet, his movements quick as he pinned her to the iron bars encircling her garden. “You little bitch.” He snarled. “I told them I would kill you, but now I do believe that I will have a little fun of my own.”
Nymiria couldn’t even scream. It felt like her mind and body were at a disconnect. She could think—she couldfeel, but could do nothing about the grotesque hands that were now ripping at her dress, shredding the fabric away from her breasts and torso. The beast licked its lips, growling deep in its chest as it moved to lower it’s head to the dusty pink peaks of her chest. Nymiria closed her eyes, repeating prayers in her head to any god that might be able to save her.
She didn’t hear the footsteps that were now approaching the garden. She didn’t hear the snarling creature that was getting closer and closer to where they stood, nor did she see the flicker of light snap in the air.
She was knocked over into the bed of moonflowers by the force that struck the beast. And as soon as she hit the ground, she looked up to see Aziel standingover her attacker with a blade drawn, but this blade did not shine like that of the silver one she carried with her. No, this one was a deep black—the same lackluster color as the iron gate beside her. Doing her best to pull the shredded fabric of her gown back over her chest, she let out a small gasp as she watched Aziel repeatedly plunge his blade into the creature’s neck. Blood splattered from the wounds, coating Aziel’s pale skin with crimson. Even when the beast laid motionless on the ground, Aziel kept going. And going. Until Nymiria mustered enough strength to extend a trembling hand in his direction and whisper his name.
When he turned to her, she saw it, the dark death that crawled through his veins—the putrid scent of decaying foliage surrounded them as fungal roots sprouted from beneath Aziel’s feet, twisting and curling around the large body of the horned beast with slimy, scaly skin, and swallowing it whole.
The roots wove back into the soil, pulling the motionless body into the ground with it as if a pit had been opened up beneath him.
Aziel straightened himself, eyes locked on hers as he took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood from his face. She was still trembling from the feeling of the creatures hot tongue on her skin, but the moment Aziel lifted her to her feet and wrapped his jacket around her frame, the tremors seemed to calm.
“What was that?” She asked.
Aziel shook his head, his gloved hand smoothing away the wild hairs around her face before cupping her cheeks. “I’ll answer those questions later.” He said it tenderly, without any sort of malice or sardonic cadence to his tone. “Are you alright?”
Nymiria stared at the place where the creature had been swallowed up. She wanted to nod. She wanted to say that she was fine, but her mind was still racing with a flurry of a thousand shameful memories that would haunt her to her death. She shook her head.
He didn’t hesitate.
The Demon of the Forest scooped her up into his arms, covered her bare chest as well as he could and walked her back towards the palace. He didn’t take hernear the main entrances, where revelers were still laughing and crying out with joy. Instead, he carried her in the direction of the servant’s quarters—the narrow entryway that led into the lowest level of the palace.There was not a single part of her body that rejected his help. She didn’t even question the roots that moved at his command. All she could do was look up at the angular lines of his face, taking in the flex of his jaw as he swallowed through clenched teeth.His eyes were focused straight ahead, weaving through the servant’s tunnels until they were ascending stairs that branched off in the direction of their tower.
Chapter 11
Green eyes flickered to hers.
Through the darkness of the blood spilling into her eyes, Nymiria could still see him—could still see the look in his eyes that begged her to play along. To go with the plan. But there was no plan. And the burning in her skull was making it hard to focus.
"You did good," Dorid clapped Owen on the shoulder, giving him a firm nod before he turned to her fully. His large form loomed over her, his spiked crown an ominous shadow that resembled the steeples on top of his palace. She shuddered under his gaze, muttering a prayer to Greia one last time.
When Dorid knelt in front of her, she tried to tug at the hands holding both of her wrists. She wanted to wipe the blood out of her eyes. She wanted to shield her naked form from him, but he merely gripped her chin between his thumb and pointer finger, forcing her still. "Don't hide from me now, darling." He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and swiped it across the gash on her forehead, but did nothing to wipe her eyes clean. She was still staring at him through black-clouded vision, eyes burning and tears spilling in pale red rivulets down her cheeks. "Tell me, Nymiria, do you love him? Or was this all just an act of rebellion—a way for you to get under my skin?"
Her eyes immediately moved to the blurred image of Owen, his smirk causing something deep inside of her to gnash it's teeth. Anger. Deep-seeded anger with claws and horns…
"Yes." Shewhispered. For a moment, she felt his grip on her chin grow tighter, his jaw clenching as he tried to dissect which option she'd agreed to. Her lips parted, licking at the salty and metallic tears that wetted her lips. "I love him."
Dorid turned to Owen with a smile on his face, a small laugh sounding from deep within his burly chest. "And you, boy—do you love her?"
Owen folded his arms across his chest just as Dorid came to stand beside him. Nymiria felt sick. She wanted to scream. She wanted to rip the flesh from her body just so that she could grow skin that'd never felt the touch of a man. Ever. Instead, she was forced to watch a look of disgust flicker across her beloved's face. "No." He said loudly, his voice flat as if he felt absolutely nothing at all.
The last thing she remembered was being carried to her room. She remembered Aziel's leathered hand covering her eyes and everything fading to a darkness that was all-consuming. Something more than sleep.
Nymiria stirred from a cloud of black silk, her heart racing at unfamiliar surroundings as she lifted her head from the pillow. She looked across the room to the lone window above a small oak desk, one candle burning and dripping onto the surface. It was still dark outside, signifying she hadn't been asleep for very long. Either way, it did nothing to ease the slight panic that was still at war with her heart.
This was not the palace.
And she had the oddest sense that she was no longer in Yaarborough at all.
With a quick glance towards the ornately carved door, Nymiria slipped from the bed and padded softly across the stone floor. By the way the candlelight hit the veins in the stone, she could distinctively tell that the floor was made of pure amethyst. It gave off a certain feeling that was almost indescribable, radiating a warm calmness that could only come from the bellyof the earth.
There was not much else to the room that seemed odd—a bed, an armoire, and a large fireplace that was nearly the height of the walls. There was a fire burning inside of it, but no heat came from the flames at all. The room was nice and cool, a relief from the hot summer humidity that surely still lingered outside. The black wall that the bed was situated against was lined with black leather-bound books, the shelves pivoting to line the wall nearest the door, as well. On the other side of the bed, purple crystals dangled from the ceiling. Some of them were their natural shape while others had noticeably been carved to look like moons and stars.
