“What were you looking for in the mortal villages?”
He paused after each question to give her time to answer. There was no emotion in his rough voice, back to his menacing whisper. Though she couldn’t see his eyes, she sensed the intensity of his stare. She glared back, giving no answer.
She expected him to leave as usual, but he lingered.
“Your bravery is foolish. No one is coming for you. By week’s end, we will have grown tired of waiting.”
And when is that? You haven’t exactly given me a calendar.
Fear took his place at the cave opening.Hestepped in front of her again. Only then did Fear’s words register.No one is coming for you. Solveig’s face must have shown her confusion.
“Ah, I didn’t finish my story. You distracted me. You see, your little friends looked for you longer than we expected, which is why we thought you were extra special. But just like always, the search died, and it’sbeen quiet ever since. No one is coming.” With that, he slammed his fist into her stomach, her body trying to curl into itself. It couldn’t, of course—the chains prevented it as he beat her with his fists over and over again.
No, no, no, no, no.She tried to inhale but couldn’t. He fractured her ribs, and she was sure one of them had punctured a lung. She couldn’t stop the cry that burst from her lips.
No, no, no, no, no.She’d held out hope that Latham was coming for her.
He wouldn’t give up. He couldn’t.
Another heartbroken sob broke through, and just before she blacked out, she saw Fear twist in her direction. Tears rolled down her face as the dim light of the sun faded, her head slumping to her chest, the darkness consuming her.
He’d never heard her make that sound before.
Booth was still slamming his fists into her limp body, even though she was out cold. It was disgusting, watching him brutalize her. He had no choice, though—his orders were to let Booth extract information from their captives. Booth got off on torturing each of the Vanir they’d captured, and the sounds of him jacking off after each session roiled his stomach.
“Enough,” he ordered. Booth looked up at him, eyes glazed over. With a shrug, he walked out of the cave, a small bulge in his pants indicating his pleasure.
When he was sure Booth was gone, he unhooked her chains from the ceiling with care. Laying her down, he inspected her, watching infascination as her body almost immediately began putting itself back together. Her broken arm snapped back into place with a loud crack and her lungs took in a full, deep breath.
The cuts and bruises remained, as they always did, but she would live, like she always did. He had no idea how it was possible. It was clear she couldn’t wield her magic, but she must have some access to it.
Taking off his glove, he reached up to brush a lock of wavy auburn hair from her face, flinching as a crack in her skull fused back together. His own magic, cold as ice, burned where his skin touched hers.
She stirred at the contact, her eyelids fluttering open. He froze at the vibrant copper colour of her irises. Though he was still wearing his mask, he bore the weight of her gaze meeting his. The despair in her eyes seared him to his very core. He stared back, not moving a muscle until her lids closed again.
He let loose a breath.
Brenna came in with a bowl of water and a cloth and he jerked his hand away from the prisoner. She brushed her hand across his shoulders before setting the bowl down silently to begin cleaning the blood from the witch’s face and body.
When she gave him a look, he got up to leave, giving them privacy. As he walked out of the cave, his magic urged him to go back—to end her.
From the moment he laid eyes on her in that mortal camp, though he didn’t know her name, he knew she was someone to fear. Terror raced through him when his magic awakened at the threat she clearly presented. She killed two of their soldiers without a second thought.
But he had orders to let her live, to gain the information they so desperately needed. Information she would not give them.
The treaty between the Trifold was broken. Idavoll Fae discovered it was the Vanir who’d betrayed them before the war and gave Midgard thetools to destroy magic. He was desperate to have his own back, and he would stop at nothing to find the people responsible and destroy them.
He would not be swayed from his mission, even as russet eyes haunted his dreams.
Thecomfortingscentofrain surrounded her as she woke. She was dressed in a fresh pair of linen pants and a new cotton shirt, already streaked with dirt from the hard ground beneath her. Why did they insist on dressing her in white?
Her chains rattled as she propped herself up as best she could on the mossy rock at her back, taking stock of her freshly healed body.
Well, mostly healed. From the dim light she could make out splotches of black and blue skin, bruises covering almost every inch of her body from his beating. But her ribs were healed and any other damage he inflicted while she was unconscious was gone.
No one is coming for you.
Her head ached, unsurprising under the circumstances, but she was also a little disoriented, as if she’d had too much sleep. The sun rising with her dread was her typical wake-up call, but it was well past midday.
