Page 18 of The Hollow King

I wanted to scream no when my release came. His laughter echoed around me. A sob caught in my throat, but it was cut short as he slapped my hands away to grab my hips. He began to pull me back and forth on his member. I do not know for how long, but then a terrible roar filled the room.

I prayed that he was finished.

His seed flooded my insides and I sagged on the bed, feeling the warmth of his release pour into me.

“I might keep you an extra day.”

I shuddered and almost asked him to finish me now.

But I suspected that is what he wanted.

✛ ✛ ✛

I hissed as I stood up from using the chamber pot. Everything ached, inside and out. The sorcery of the balm was long gone. My legs trembled as I straightened my back. His tunic fell to my knees. It was the only clothing suitable for me to wear comfortably. It did not matter that it drowned my small form. I tossed the rag on the floor, beside the chamber pot.

As I hobbled back to the bed, tears began to well up once more when I remembered him using a similar rag to clean himself before he took me again. Thankfully, not in my rear. I sniffed and used the long sleeve of his tunic to wipe my nose.

I was carefully climbing onto the bed when the door opened behind me.

“No more, please,” I croaked.

“Borin, brought three foods.”

I held onto the bed as relief flooded through me.

“Thank you, Borin.”

He happily placed the tray on the bed. He began to chatter about how he beat his new pet. I inched under the covers.

I ate, drank and fell asleep.

Only a few more days left.

✛ ✛ ✛

The beast did not return for two days. I jumped each time the door opened, but it was always Borin with food and some vile-tasting potion. It looked and smelled different, but I would rather feel my muscles ache than try one of that monster's balms again.

The silence was its own kind of cruelty. I had grown used to fear having a shape, footsteps I could brace against, a door I could watch. Without it, there was only the waiting, and waiting left too much room for thought.

I turned to my side, resting my cheek on the soft pillows and staring at the window. The birds still chirped. The wind still blew, but my body and mind felt fractured, cracked like a porcelain dish.

The world outside had not paused to grieve with me. It never did. My mother's death had taught me that much—that the sun rose regardless of what was buried, that other women still hung washing and called to their children while somewhere a girl wept into a pillow that was not her own. I envied them their ignorance. I envied the birds most of all, who had never known what it was to belong to someone who did not want you, only used you.

I prayed to the old gods. The forbidden ones. I did not pray for rescue. I no longer believed rescue was owed to me. I prayed only that whatever remained of me by the time my days ran out would not be too small a thing to carry into the next world.

The tears continued to drip onto the pillow.

Chapter 11

Varga

She was not using the balm to help her heal and it was infuriating.

“She did not accept the balm?” I asked, swiping the jar from Borin's palm.

He shook his head before he wailed. I clutched the jar and closed my eyes as the dull thuds began to reverberate against the stone. I sighed and placed the jar on my table.

“Leave, Borin.”