“You’re dismissed,” one of the skeletons commands, and I pull my thoughts and critical gaze back as the house slaves quickly bow and then scurry out of the flaps between me and Harsh. “Take the guards outside with you,” he calls after the retreating slaves, and I debate if he means for me and Harsh to go too. Harsh doesn’t move, so I don’t either.
“I’m shattered. How long do we have to stay at this thing tonight before I can find a willing wet cunt and then the back of my eyelids?” one of the skeletons asks as he plops down into a hand-carved black maple chair.
There are three other magnificent works of art created solely for these males to set their delicate asses in. The gorgeous gleaming chairs surround a thick wood table made of the same precious wood, the cost of which could probably fund the ludere for a year…or five. I’m taken aback by the realization that I know what the table and chairs are made out of, let alone that they’re extremely rare and coveted. I’ve never seen anything like it in my time as a blade slave, which means it must be something I know from my long forgotten life before.
Another skeleton snorts as he walks over to check the temperature of the water in one of the baths. “You snored almost the whole way out to this Kings’ forsaken hovel. You have nothing to be shattered about, Ri—” The skeleton’s all black eyes cautiously flick over to me and Harsh. “Bones,” he quickly corrects himself.
Bones’s eyes follow the other skeleton’s gaze back to where Harsh and I are standing inside the entryway, and a smile lifts one corner of his mouth. “I’m a growing boy,Skull,” he whines, overenunciating the other’s fake name.
“Growing boys don’t get to play with pretty cunts; they get to go to bed early and jerk off until their sheets grow hard enough to crack,” the third skeleton points out as he removes his suit pieces and unties his black leather travel armor beneath.
Skull and Bones both chuckle lightly at that, and I even hear Harsh give a quiet snort of amusement.
“You’re always the lame, wilted branch on the tree, Scorpius,” Bones taunts the third skeleton as he rises from the end of the bed he’s perched on and starts to pull off his own layers and hidden armor.
Bones pulls off his vambraces and then unties and removes his rerebraces and the attached shoulder pieces of his kit. Methodically he unbuckles the straps that fasten his black layered-leather breastplate and then shrugs it off too. I’m curious about his sure and swift movements as he disarms. I’d expect him to fumble without a servant to do the harder parts, but his fingers are deft and practiced, which means he does this on his own more often than not. Maybe this Order isn’t as prissy as I thought they might be with servants waiting on their every whim to make life as convenient and cozy as possible.
Bones is sweaty under the layers of armor, and before I can look away, he pulls his coal-dyed tunic off and sighs with relief. The glamour paints his skin with shadow, only highlighting the shape of white bone where his actual bones should be. But I trace the grid of muscle on his abdomen, eyeing the lines of his hardened torso with a greed I have no business feeling. No. These three aren’t like the flabby masters I’ve known.
There’s nothing soft and complacent about the fae in front of me. He’s raw, honed and sharpened bulk under smooth, unmarked skin. The glamour wants to trick me into seeing something else, but there’s no missing the size of him or the way his muscles fill out his body despite the white bones and the pitch patches painted over his flesh. I lift my gaze to his defined pecs and see little black nipples that for some reason make me want to smile. Skeletons don’t have nipples; they need to work on their glamour.
Bones’s chest begins to shake, and I look up to find his black eyes are fixed on me. A gleam of amusement lights up his onyx depths, and I hurry to look away, only to find the other two skeletons are watching me too.
“What’s your name, cria?” Scorpius asks, and irritation flits through me at the condescending term.
Cria are babies of the herd animal fae have come to rely on for all kinds of things. We sheer their coats and use them to make different fabrics and goods. Their meat is a staple in most fae diets—if you’re not a blade slave, that is—and their bones are strong and used to forge useful weapons and tools. Cria can be a term of endearment spoken from a mother to her babe, but out of the skeleton’s mouth, I know it’s meant to make me feel small and useless.
“Slave,” I reply, momentarily surprised by the cheek I’ve allowed to flow from my lips.
Scorpius’s black gaze narrows slightly, and I hold my breath, waiting to see if he’ll explode and punish me for my insolence.
Just like with the healer earlier, it appears my seditious thoughts have actually manifested and loosened the tight hold I should be maintaining over my lips and tongue. I tamp down my own shock as my mind screams at me in warning about just how stupid it is to mouth off to a member of an Order. The skeleton looks at me like my death might be even more imminent than Tilleo had planned, and for some reason, that doesn’t have me shaking in my strips of silk like it might have before.
There’s a part of me that welcomes the threat in his eyes while another piece of me promises I won’t go easy. My blood doesn’t run cold. Sweat doesn’t bead my brow, and there’s no hesitation weighing my muscles down as his eyes stay fixed on mine. All I can think is, if he’s going to kill me, maybe sooner rather than later might not be such a bad thing, and I wonder how many of them I could take with me before I go.
ChapterSix
Unease coils around me, but it’s Harsh’s, not my own. Instead, I’m more curious about what I might have just unleashed and strangely eager to see where this will lead. Scorpius glares at me as though he’s mentally doing his best to light me on fire, and I quickly realize that I’m looking at him the exact same way. I know I should stop this. I need to check myself before I bite off more than I can chew. The only problem is I feel ravenous right now.
Laughter draws Scorpius’s scowl. Skull stares at us both, a chuckle spilling from his lips and serving to lighten the building tension. “Slaveis easy enough to remember,” he points out, a smooth smile somehow brightening his skeletal features, while Bones watches on with amusement sparkling in his black eyes. Scorpius studies me like he’s waiting for me to blush with embarrassment or apologize for my out-of-line and snappish response. I do neither, my unapologetic eyes meeting his blink for blink.
“Wash me, Slave,” Scorpius orders, his ebony stare filled with challenge and his command designed to put me back under his thumb where he thinks I belong. His tone is deep, his order and authority absolute, and it speaks to a longing in me I didn’t know existed until now.
Without missing a beat, I move toward a gold-plated tub, his long strides meeting me there. He reaches behind him and, in one smooth move, pulls off the black tunic that’s sticking to the lines and curves of his body, dropping it on the ground, like the item of clothing means nothing to him. The disregard heats my blood even more, and I struggle not to allow any of it to settle my features into a glare.
As a blade slave, I’m only given annually two sets of training linens, two sets of underwear and wraps to bind my breasts, one form of ill-fitting training armor, and nothing else. Watching him brush aside something so easily, something thatIwould treasure, makes me want to slap him. Then again, he’s about to be bathed by a blade slave in a golden tub with magically heated water, so what do I really expect? These fae aren’t soft like my masters, but they’re clearly just as pompous and entitled. They’re hard on the outside, feeble and fussy on the inside, and I have zero respect for any of it.
Scorpius holds his arms out as though he’s unable to unfasten his own pants, and Bones snickers at his fellow Order member’s actions. I move closer, refusing to be intimidated, and reach for the laces that tuck away his cock. Before I begin to undo them, I notice several blades sheathed into the design of his black trousers, and I find myself reaching for them instead. He stiffens slightly. The movement is so minute I wouldn’t have registered it if I weren’t so close. I bite back the satisfied smile that wants to quirk my lips, and smoothly go to work disarming him. Arrogantly, I train my silver eyes on his sable stare as I pull knives and daggers from their sewn-in sheaths in his pants. I casually collect the blades in one hand as I go, moving deftly, as I instinctually find all of his hiding places without much effort.
His black eyes are filled with scorn, but there’s intrigue floating around in that dark gaze too. All I need to do is look down at the laces of his pants for evidence that my unarming him this way is appreciated by his baser nature. I won’t though. A smirk tilts his full lips as I slowly bend to pull the last blades from his calves, and I can practically see the filthy thoughts glowing freely in his gaze. He’s doing it on purpose now. Trying to unsettle me. He’s probing for a weakness.
I wonder for a split second if Tilleo warned them about my aversion to using my body in a way that I don’t want. I decide quickly that it doesn’t matter. My proximity to this arrogant Order member doesn’t bother me. I don’t feel threatened, only challenged, and I’m done handing my power over freely. If this Scorpion wants to play, then let’s play. I sting too.
Harsh is suddenly next to me, his hands outstretched to take possession of the weapons gripped in my hand. I didn’t see him move, and I don’t know if I was too focused on the shape of Scorpius’s face under the glamour to hear someone tell Harsh to relieve me of the collection in my palms or if Harsh is that stealthy. Carefully I hand them over while still nakedly studying the face under the skeleton mask.
“Careful,Slave,” Scorpius taunts. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to remember me.” I go still at his words.
Doesheremember me from that night in Dorsin’s room? Does he know that’sexactlywhat I’m trying to do, to match his features and voice with that faded, dusty memory? He tilts his head at my stony reaction, and reality slams back into me. I hand off the last of the knives and decide I’m reading him wrong. He doesn’t meanrememberhim from my past, he means I’m trying to remember what he looks like for thefuture. Knowing what he looks like could help to track him down. Little does he know, I’m going to kill one of them and then promptly have my head removed from my body, so getting called out for memorizing his features doesn’t exactly pose the threat he thinks it does.
