Another pat with his fish-belly fingers. “He’s a Vandar and you’re a female. From what I know of the creatures, that’s all it takes.”
I wouldn’t have considered myself a fan of the Vandar, but that seemed more than a bit insulting. Kolt might protect me because he’d been tasked to rescue me, but that was as far as it went.
“So, I’m in here with you…?” I asked, truly curious why they’d gone to the trouble of bringing me to an interrogation room or laboratory, or whatever this place was. If my role was to keep Kolt in line, I could hardly do it from far away.
The man’s expression darkened. “You were supposed to be brought in here to make the Vandar sweat, to make him think you were being interrogated or tortured, but that didn’t happen.”
“What do you mean?”
The sigh that escaped his pillowy lips was weary. “I mean that the incompetent guards shot him.” I drew in a sharp breath, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Only stunned, but he took a hard fall. Instead of worrying about you in the cell, he’s been unconscious this entire time.”
Well, that wasn’t good. How hard was his fall? As much as the Vandar annoyed me, he was the only ally I had, and I didn’t want to see him hurt.
“We’ve had a change of plans.” The Zagrathgave me another terrifying smile. “I’ll have to enlist you in a more active role than first expected.”
More active? Why did I have a feeling I was going to hate this plan?
“When you’re returned to the cell, I’d like you to convince the Vandar that you’re in love with him.”
I had to fight not to laugh out loud. We’d done nothing but argue since we’d laid eyes on each other. There was no way he’d believe I was in love with him, and no way I could even attempt to convince him without laughing myself to death.
The man must have noticed my hesitation because he tilted his head at me and blinked his translucent eyelashes slowly. “Or we could actually torture you.”
Chapter
Six
Kolt
First, there was pain. Then there was the dull throbbing that seemed to pulse through every part of my body. I forced my eyes open, though the faint light felt like shards of glass stabbing into my brain. Wincing in agony, I rolled onto my side and took shallow breaths as pain contorted my chest.
The air was hot and thick, nothing like the cold air I preferred. But why did I prefer the cold? The question rattled through my head unanswered. I did not know. All I knew was that the steamy air was an assault on my throat and my lungs.
Despite the ache in my head and twinge in my chest, I pushed myself halfway up and peered around. Stone walls and iron bars for a door with only a meager grate high in one wall for airand light. The corridor beyond was shrouded with shadows, and the only sounds from the outside world were muffled.
I put a hand to my chest, which was hot and tender to the touch, but not bleeding. Then I touched my head, running my palm carefully over my forehead and then up and around until I touched something sticky. I pulled my hand away to see blood darkening my fingertips.
“Tvek,” I said instinctively, without knowing exactly why I’d used that word. I only knew it fit my growing sense of frustration and general confusion.
I gingerly touched the sticky spot on my head again, grateful to realize that the blood wasn’t flowing. Whatever injury I’d sustained wasn’t fresh, and it wasn’t gushing. That was some comfort.
I slowly hoisted myself onto the metal bench bolted to the wall, putting my head in my hands when the movement made the room tilt and my stomach churn. My injury might not be spurting blood, but it had been enough to knock me unconscious.
I squinted at my surroundings, straining to remember anything about them. Nothing. I blew out an impatient breath. I remembered nothing. Not where I was. Not how I’d gotten here. Not how I’d gotten hurt.
Tvek, I didn’t even remember who I was.
This made my pulse quicken and my tail snap. How did I not know who I was? Then I looked at my red-stained fingers. My head injury must have been severe enough to knock all memories and knowledge about who I was from my brain.
I rubbed my bloody fingers together slowly, trying to stay calm. I hadn’t lost everything. I could still speak and apparently curse, although I didn’t know what language I spoke or how many.
Sitting back, I looked down at myself. Somehow, I knew that the leather strips hanging from my waist were a battle kilt. That meant I was a warrior. A smile tugged at my lips. I liked the fact that I was a warrior.
Is that how I’d ended up in a prison? Had I been captured in battle? Was I a prisoner of war? But which war, and what side was I on?
All the questions made my head pound, so I closed my eyes and leaned back. I took long, even breaths and tried to quiet the panicked questions darting around my mind.
“This is not permanent,” I reassured myself, the deep burr of my voice a pleasant surprise and a surprising comfort. “This is only temporary.”
