Fable pushes through the crowd with a slight limp. “Come, little one.”
I scan the room, the waiting faces, weighing my options. None, it seems. I step forward, trying to appear in charge of something, even if only my own bound body.
Trudence dissects my act of conviction with slitted eyes and a snarl. “Bye, Mini.”
“See you in the arena,” Paisel says with a wave.
Fable grabs the rope and guides me into the hallway. Then he lifts his hand, holding it in my face long enough for his fingertips to turn into claws. My jaw slips out of place faster than I can tell my feet to run. He clamps his hand onto my shoulder, piercing my skin.
I scream. My knees buckle.
He tears his claws free, hissing from the pain, then laughs. “So worth it. That was for my foot.”
I hang my head as he drags me away by the rope. Blood dribbles down my shoulder. The hallway floor is solid dirt like the room with the women, but a patchwork of hides and fur and feathers is stretched over the walls of death. I look back at the shrinking archway and trail of blood, wondering how all those animals died if Vaile only eat meatless bars until blackness saves me from the pain.
Chapter 23
EVER
Icome to, the throbbing in my shoulder growing sharper with every layer of awareness until I almost wish I could sink back into unconsciousness. Enough pain or exhaustion combined with a shove over the edge, and I’m out for hours. Anytime I get close to the line, it seems my brain takes advantage of the escape and checks out completely. If only I could choose when it happened.
I check my body for injuries first—nothing new except the claw marks from Fable. But the rope is gone. I force myself to sit up, my hand slipping in a red puddle. More of my blood. I’m losing it faster than my body can replace it. The room goes on forever. Light stones are set every few feet along the top edges of the dirt walls, providing only a distant glimmer.
I recognize Fable first, standing ten feet away, arms straight at his sides as though awaiting his next command, claws retracted. In front of me, not quite in the center of the room, a huge man sits on a throne of fangs and talons and horns stuck together with a black paste, long since dried and hardened, and at his side, in a throne of sharpened bones, is Kelter.
My body locks up, the sight of him stopping the flow of blood and holding my heart captive. But he hardly looks like himself. The split lip and bruised face are healed, his tan skin bare except for the brown pants clinging to his waist and gathered at his ankles. The sharp bones and frail frame he developed over the past few months are gone, though it’s only been a couple of days since I last saw him. His shoulders are broader, his arms and legs thicker, his chest puffed and proud and… covered in tattoos. Hundreds of black circles of different sizes loop together over his chest, forming a round mass of ink and hiding the fresh scar from being stabbed at the Ring. It’s striking. All of him is.
But where did that tattoo come from? And what is he doing on a throne? Next to that beast of a man? Shaggy golden-red hair caps the man’s head, his neck and limbs covered in a layer of tiny curls, his chest equally hairy except the bare lines of his scars where nothing grows. And it’s not the perfect manly amount of hair. No, no. It’s thick and puffy, so much so that a shirt wouldn’t sit flat against his chest. I’m grateful I can’t see his back and scold myself for wondering if the hairs roll into tiny knots from the friction while fucking.
Except for the fur, he’s handsome, his face tan and chiseled, cheekbones high and angled, a stereotypical image of rugged perfection I hate to acknowledge as attractive, though it is—if I don’t look below his neck. Even his forehead is superior. He wears an exact match of Kelter’s brown pants. They rest at his hips, just below his hairy belly. I regret thinking about how much worse it gets below the waist. A low growl escapes him as his tongue sweeps over his lips, a scruffy beard all around “This is her? This is the one you told me about? How did she end up with the Half Links?”
Kelter flexes on his throne. “I’m not sure how, but this is the one.”
I tense, reaching for the knife I know isn’t there.Impossible.Betrayal pulses through my soul in sour beats.
You’re supposed to be my friend. You’re supposed to make things better, not worse.
Why did I ever think I could trust him again?
“I found her out in the snowstorm, Zandrite,” Fable says, stepping forward.
What?“This hideous excuse for a man isZandrite?”
He grips the throne, tapping his thick fingers while Kelter leans forward, hissing at me. “God. He’s a god. Don’t piss him off.”
I shift onto my knees, trying to look like I’m actually considering his request. “That’s no god. He looks like a man who’s never been fucked and has to untangle his toe hairs with a fork.”
Kelter buries his face in his hands.
“Bring us a snack to celebrate,” Zandrite says, tugging at his short beard. “I like this one.”
Fable bows his head and backs out, making the long walk to an exit.
I glare at the two men for four awkward minutes until he returns, a stone platter in his hands piled high with raw meat. The pink and white cuts marinate in a pool of crimson that drips off the platter, splattering the dirt floor as he leans forward to present it. Zandrite snatches a rack of ribs and sinks his teeth in, tearing it from the bone effortlessly.
I gag.
Then Kelter—myKelt—picks up a leg and sucks the blood-bathed pink flesh into his mouth and pulls it back out, unbitten. Blood smears over his lips and beads on his chin. Drops fall onto his inked chest, like red eyes inside the dark circles.
