by Isabel Wroth
How could she possibly help any of her people? She couldn't even make it from the bathing chamber to her cot without falling.
She knew she held thousands of secrets within her. Ilaria tried to remember more of her seven hundred plus days adrift, but the memories came slowly. Faces. Sensations. Sounds. Places.
Sometimes one long stream of images, other times fragmented pieces that made no sense. Surely, somewhere inside her, she had the knowledge and tools to not only survive but triumph.
She just had to remember.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ilaria~
Four days after the scene in the throne room, six more deaths had occurred, and Margen’s plans of breeding were put on hold in favor of finding the ‘demon.’
The confused, enraged queen didn’t throw Aley back into Salista’s clutches, distractedly ordering him to stay and see to it that Ilaria was up and walking as soon as possible.
Ilaria knew better than to relax and assume she and Aley were safe because without warning Margen could opt to take her fury and frustration out on them both.
Aley had done everything in his power to heal Ilaria’s body, but it was one thing to heal, and another thing entirely to give her muscles the strength to support her.
That, Ilaria had to do for herself.
It had taken her a month after her Awakening before she could lift her head, another month to raise both her arms, still another to be able to get halfway up into a sitting position, and every day of success had been due to Aley’s stubborn determination.
“Good, two more,” he told her now, not a hint of sympathy in his voice as he urged her on.
On her back with her feet on the floor, Ilaria worked to lift and hold her pelvis up off the ground. The muscles in her thighs trembled, her toes cramped, her ass and belly ached from how hard she pushed to get even a few inches off the ground.
Aley held her hips to keep her from dropping back down after each hard-won lift, but he didn’t help pull her up.
Ilaria knew as soon as she finished the two more lifts Aley demanded, he would move to her feet and spend agonizing minutes stretching and manipulating her legs.
After all that, he would put her in a hot bath, and then face down on a padded table to massage away all her aches and pains until she was nothing but putty in his strong hands.
But something was bothering him more than usual. There were shadows in his eyes, lines of strain around his lips, and Ilaria didn’t know why.
While she struggled through two more grueling lifts, she dipped into the thoughts floating across the surface of his mind and found absolutely nothing. More shadows.
“Take a break, deep breaths,” he instructed, giving her hips a gentle squeeze before releasing her.
Aley moved to her feet, lifting one ankle to his shoulder, leaning forward until every muscle from her ass to her toes was drawn tight,
“No, don’t hold your breath. Inhale through your nose, exhale through your mouth.”
One hand curled around her ankle, the other over her thigh, kneading at the tight muscles while she struggled to obey.
He stared down at her with his jaw clenched tight, watching her face intently for signs of pain, waiting for her muscles to release and lengthen. Grateful for this one ability more than ever, Ilaria gently sent her thoughts to Aley,
~Are you angry with me?
His pupils shot wide with surprise, and for a moment she was overwhelmed with relief. But it was short-lived, as his answer held a discordant note of falsehood.
~Angry with you? Never.
~Something is wrong. I did something to hurt you.
Aley’s expression softened, his hands caressing her leg now instead of digging deep into the muscle.
“Ahem!” the small female slave in the corner cleared her throat, reminding them of her presence while embroidering elaborate swirls of precious gems onto a new gown for Margen.
Aley and Ilaria both ignored their chaperone, and even though he was gentle about it, it still hurt when Aley switched from one leg to the other.
~There is nothing you could do to hurt me, he vowed, and she could hear the solemn melody of the emotion that accompanied the truth.
~Then what is it?
Aley’s eyes were so expressive, but because of the scarring on his face, it was difficult to tell sometimes what he was feeling.
The flushed tips of his ears were the only outward sign to clue her in, and without doing a deeper dive into his thoughts, Ilaria couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed or angry.
~You are pushing yourself beyond the limit of what is safe, trying to regain all the abilities you had while traveling.
Ilaria stared up at him quizzically, grimacing as the muscles in her calf protested the stretch.
~I need every skill I can re-master to—
“Time for your bath,” he interrupted aloud, helping her stand on shaky legs.
When they had begun her rehabilitation, Aley had been adamant that at the end of each session, she walked to her bath. She had thought it was an excuse for him to further hold and touch her, but now she wasn’t sure.
He put his arm around her waist and let her lean on him, supporting her while she put one unsteady foot in front of the other.
She had to concentrate to keep from going down, sweating profusely by the time they got to the bathing chamber. Aley praised her softly as she sank onto the padded bench by the door.
He brought her a cool cloth to wipe the worst of the sweat from her neck and shoulders, going about his routine to fill the tub.
He came back to her and pulled her to her feet again, his long, elegant fingers knotted and bent with scar tissue, brushing the fabric from her shoulders to send her dress whooshing to her feet.
Ilaria felt not a lick of shyness to be nude in front of Aley. Slaves were not afforded such luxuries as shyness, but that wasn’t it.
Aley had seen every inch of her, seen to her bodily functions when she had been paralyzed upon first waking, bathed her with his hands so many times there was literally no part of her he hadn’t touched.
This time it was different. Aley's hands lingered a few moments longer than necessary as he lifted her up and carefully lowered her into the deep basin, kneeling beside her with a sponge in hand to begin bathing her.
~You’ve had three seizures in the last five days. Your brain is bleeding, and if you keep trying to force the connections open, you’re going to die.
~Aley, I have to try. I have allies if I can get in contact with them, and the only way I can do that without risking your life is to regain my abilities to travel.
Because their chaperon couldn’t see, Aley’s lips peeled back from his teeth in a furious grimace, his hand closing so tightly around the sponge his knuckles turned white. ~I am nothing, Ilaria. Even if I die today, Margen has a use for you. She won’t kill you. She wants you to regain your powers. She wants a child from you. You said it yourself: you have plenty of time to take care.
Ilaria folded her hands around his, waiting until he lifted his gorgeous eyes to meet hers,
~You are everything to me. If you died today, I have no reason to go on.
“You do not have the luxury of being pampered today, Ilaria. The winter banquet is tonight, and the queen wants her pet at her side.”
Lya was the oldest of Margen’s female slaves. A faithful, trusted spy, always watching and reporting to her Mystress. Lya never failed to remind Ilaria she was a slave, or to conceal her contempt for the way Margen coddled Ilaria.
“Thank you for reminding me, Lya. The queen’s gown is sure to be the loveliest of all thanks to your fine stitches.” Ilaria loved to vex Lya by never displaying anything other than sweetness and smiles.
“Have you finished it yet?”
Her question caused Lya’s face to twist as though something sour had been thrust between her lips. She spun on her heel and marched back to her corner, moving her stool with a purposeful thump to where Ilaria could see her, sitting down
to take up the red fabric once again. At least Lya kept her rude tongue in her mouth.
Ilaria couldn’t help the hum of pleasure when Aley’s fingers slid into her hair and pressed firmly at her scalp, his touch so sure and strong it made her melt deeper into the tub.
~Your mind is a muscle, it needs to be gently stretched, just like your legs. Promise me you’ll take it slower.
He used a soft cloth to spread soap over her skin, in between each finger, up her arms, kneading it firmly into her neck and shoulders, down over her breasts with the barest hint of a smile.
He watched her from under the veil of his lashes as his palm dipped beneath the water to gently, thoroughly bathe the tender flesh between her thighs.
Lya was watching, so Ilaria couldn’t react to the gentle pleasure Aley’s strong fingers and the chafe of the cloth brought, but she could widen her legs to encourage him without Lya being any wiser.
~I promise, she thought, sighing into the caress.
Ilaria might not be getting her full body massage today, but Aley was diligent, careful to make sure the release he gave her was a tender rise and fall that sapped all remaining soreness from her body.
He shifted just long enough to shield her, allowing her a too brief moment to give into her orgasm, making it seem like a natural movement to reach for another cloth. Lust and pride turned his eyes liquid, but his voice in her mind was hoarse with a deeper, rougher emotion.
~You are my reason for being, Ilaria. If you are dead from forcing your abilities, I will ensure I follow not long after.
When she had first Awoken, Ilaria had been consumed by pain and fear. Overwhelmed by news her people were all but extinct, forced to face the reality of life as a slave, the last thing Ilaria had expected was to become so attached to her healer.
She had fought it at the beginning, certain her feelings of need and desire were due to having no one else to lean on or trust.
And perhaps at first, that’s all it had been, but Aley’s patience, his kindness, the way he put himself between her and Salista when the psychotic Mystress raged had convinced her that if she were to have deeper feelings, he would keep them safe.
Ilaria had desperately wanted his comfort, yet she had been terrified if she accepted it, if she came to rely on Aley, he would be taken from her and she would be left exposed and raw.
Her flesh vulnerable to the icy evil that permeated this beautiful world. A soft spot, a weakness to be exploited and destroyed if discovered. So Ilaria had held Aley at arm’s length despite knowing he returned her desire.
Nearly as soon as they had stepped foot on Myst, her fears had been realized, and all she had wished was for a few more stolen moments alone with him.
Now, her focus had to be regaining her powers and strengthening her muscles so she could walk, but Aley was right. They had time, and her goal was to ensure they both survived to see freedom.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Satesh~
Encased in his armor, safe beneath the veil of invisibility, Satesh cautiously moved around the banquet hall, certain the filth he bore witness to would forever stain his soul.
There were pillows and lounges spread throughout the massive stone hall arranged in circles, lavish tables filled with heaping plates of delicacies and pitchers of strange drinks at the center of each grouping.
Slaves stood behind their Mystress', sat on the floor in front of her to feed her, or were being fucked. Slapped around, ridden until their owner convulsed with pleasure and pushed away.
Some were looking like they were being forced between their Mystress's thighs, or worse, were bent over and taking a cruelly thick toy cock up the ass, mercilessly drilled by their Mystress.
Even removed from his emotions, Satesh could sense the pain and fear coursing through the room.
The banquet was simply an afterthought. The meal was had at the slave’s expense, and everywhere he looked someone was white-faced with terror, bleeding, crying, or dying.
Ilaria sat on a red cushion at the base of the three-tiered platform where a fork-tongued Carnethian was pleasuring the queen.
Margen was sitting on his face, the metal claws she wore as jewelry on her fingers dug into his skull so hard blood slid freely down the male's skin to stain the white lounge.
There was another female across from the queen, a much larger female, with dull red, waxy looking flesh, riding her slave so hard his lips were twisted in pain. Although it could have been from the hands she was using to strangle him while she forcefully bounced on his cock.
Satesh could barely control the way his fists clenched, wondering if this bloated red witch had been one of the many to abuse his brothers.
Ilaria’s eyes were lowered, disgust painted on her beautiful face, her lips twisted in sympathy as she was forced to listen to the frenzy of terror and brutality being committed all around her.
It was the most horrific, repulsive thing Satesh had ever seen. The one thing worth looking at, the one beautiful, elegant thing in the entire room, was Ilaria, not doing anything at all except sitting on her cushion.
A delicate chain ran from her throat to the leg of Margen’s lounge, twisting knots in her garish red sarong as she struggled to remain calm and not look anywhere but at her lap.
He glanced at the red Mystress bouncing on her slave, his gut churning with sickness to see the boy had literally been fucked to death. His Mystress was still gyrating and humping his corpse, her eyes rolled back, face slack, cheeks bright while she lost herself to the pleasure of what she'd done.
Satesh swallowed back the bile that rose, watching her shove herself down one last time, grind deep and reach up to slap the naked cock of the scrawny slave waiting beside her, giggling like a little girl when he flinched in pain.
The gelatinous, worm-like Mystress pulled a silver blanket over her cooling body, snapping her fingers demandingly at one of the white-faced slaves behind her.
"Get rid of this one and bring me another," she ordered, pushing the body away from her like it was garbage.
The corpse of the dead slave hit the stone, the slap of his body so disrespected, drug away while the Mystress turned and flounced back on her lounge, lasciviously licking her lips as her sickly red gaze rolled around the hall.
“Where is Salista tonight, my queen? It is unlike her to miss such a spectacle.”
A smirk canted his lips, and quietly as he could, Satesh whispered to Rahannah to set off the fortress’s perimeter alarm.
Immediately, drones flooded the hallway and began demanding identification from everyone in their path. Chaos reigned, slaves were spared further pain for a few moments, and when Margen gave the noisome machines the command to disperse, she ordered one of them to give Salista’s location.
“Unable to complete request. Bio-signature not detected.” The machine reported.
Margen’s shriek of rage was sharp and high enough to make Satesh wince. Before turning to the trio of gray-skinned females at her back, Margen threw out her arm, slashing the throat of the slave she had forced to pleasure her in fury,
“Find her, bring her to me!”
“Nasrin, are the charges set?” Satesh whispered into his com and immediately received a response.
“Yes, Exarch. All slaves in the lower levels have been evacuated to the shuttles. Rahannah and Joeris are rounding up the last few we can get to without being discovered.”
“Understood. Stand by.”
Salista’s corpse was brought and lay at her mother’s feet. A hollow victory, but his brothers' murder had been repaid in kind.
Now to finish it.
CHAPTER NINE
Satesh~
“This is getting out of hand, Margen. Twelve clan heads murdered, slaves gone missing, this constant barrage of malfunctions? I thought you said this demon of Salista’s was nothing but a figment of her crazed imagination!”
The gray-skinned female was dead before she could lay any more blame on Margen for not handling the chaotic situation,
her black blood gushing in thick spurts from the gash in her throat, the dishes rattling as her body fell forward, her head smacking against the gilded table top with a loud thunk.
Drops of blood flew from the end of Margen’s clawed fingertips as she waved her hand in irate welcome,
“Is there anyone else who would like to speak up? Good! The banquet is over! I want every single one of you in the halls, hunting down the maggot responsible for this!”
As Margen began to rant and rave, her demands growing louder and louder until she was screaming them. Satesh moved silently along the edges of the hall, passing right by Margen’s fearmongers to crouch down beside Ilaria, examining the severity of her bruises.
He didn’t touch her, made no sound to betray his presence, but her eyes slid sideways to look directly at him. She couldn’t see him, but apparently, she could sense him.
Before he could stop himself, Satesh reached out to curl his armor covered hand around her ankle, watching her lips tremble in response, her toes curling to acknowledge his touch.
He felt the wave of her energy, a gentle tingle that passed through his armor to tentatively brush against his skin.
~Who are you?
Safely ensconced in his armor, Satesh couldn’t answer. Instead, impulsively, he used his fingertip to draw the letters of his name onto the bare skin of her thigh, where her ridiculous red sarong split at her hip. Her flesh pebbled as though cold, but from the heat painting her cheeks, he knew she was feeling anything but.
From the moment he had seen Ilaria sitting on the balcony outside Margen’s quarters, her eyes closed, her face turned up toward the sun, Satesh had made up his mind to take her.
Satesh had spent far too much time following Ilaria around, studying her, inexorably drawn to her and her silent interactions with the Issite despite his mission.
Satesh knew Ilaria and Aley were not lovers, not in the traditional sense, but watching their stolen moments together and how tenderly the pair touched, and after hearing about Margen’s plans for Ilaria, it was impossible to stay away for long.
