by Zoe Parker
The Magistrate has a big head on his shoulders.
These histories are a sham. They’re not about some selfless savior battling to save his people from the ‘monsters’. It’s the documentation of the slaughter of entire Feyrie species. My eyes flick to Phobe. I suspect they didn’t die by the sword of the Magistrate either but died instead by the clawed hands of Phobe.
Phobe strikes me as the weapon of destruction. Not some fop with an over-inflated ego and a floppy sword. A small floppy sword, ha.
Phobe is their weapon, one that they don’t understand or recognize for what it is. The one that they know less about than I do, and I don’t know shit, except that he’s one scary dude. Prisoners talk. After seeing him the first time all those years ago, I listened.
Plus, I have eyes. And hormones. One of them is going to have to go soon.
A sharp jerk sideways catches me unaware. Off balance, I stumble and trip over one of the thick, ugly rugs on the floor. Throwing my hands up, I try to catch myself, but end up on my face in a very ungainly fashion. The very familiar taste of blood floods my mouth as my teeth split my lip. I curse under my breath.
Big, cool hands lift me to my feet. In surprise, I look up into the bright eyes of Phobe. Eyes that I feel as much more than see. A tingling warm feeling of awareness—and something else I can’t quite put my finger on—tickles my skin.
I snort, unable to help myself. Here I am, naked and scarred up like I fell on a chainsaw, getting all moony over a pair of eyeballs.
How is that not ridiculous?
“If we play spin the bottle, I’m not going first,” I whisper to him.
‘You think this is a game?’ That deep sensual voice in my head jerks me right out of my humor.
Subtly, I study his closed expression. Not a single flicker of…well, anything. I bet my ass this isn’t something they know he can do. It’s the type of secret people keep to themselves. Secrets are something I’m very familiar with.
‘You are not prepared.’ Always so formal and stick-in-the-mud.
Since he can obviously speak in my mind, it isn’t far-fetched to think I can talk back to him the same way. Isn’t that how telepathy works? So, I try it.
‘This isn’t game night?’
He raises an eyebrow at that.
‘Foolish girl.’ It does work!
‘Crazy is a better word,’ I think at him, truthfully.
How can I not be crazy after all this shit? Seriously.
For a moment our gazes lock, broken only by the brightening of his. It’s the only indication that something’s about to happen. The distinct sound of leather hitting his flesh follows. I frown, knowing that sound with an intimacy that comes from long hours spent with one making the same sound on me.
Violence I can handle. Way better than the weird mojo shit that passed between us moments before. My frown deepening, I realize that it bothers me that they treat him so callously. To whip someone is to belittle them, to make them feel powerless and beaten. I should know.
A man who could’ve popped out of my storybooks can’t control his fate any more than I can.
He is the one who took care of me when I couldn’t take care of myself. The epiphany struck me the night before. The stitches were so damn precise and careful…so like him. It must’ve taken him hours to sew me back together, clean the wounds, give me fluids while I lay unconscious for god knows how long.
It’s not hard to assume he’s the one responsible for my weekly bucket of water, either.
Phobe fixed me when no one ordered him to. He did it because he could, not out of some misplaced sense of guilt. Emotions don’t seem to be his forte. Phobe has done more for me since I’ve been in this place than anyone else has done for me my entire life.
I know exactly what it’s like to be mistreated, used. Abused. The humiliation that follows the punishments that the cowardly bastards inflict, the soul-deep rage that burns in your gut with no outlet. Oh yeah, I know.
With him, his captors have gone a further step. Phobe doesn’t have any kind of freedom.
This time, my sensitive ears catch the whiz of the whip lashing out, and I do something that surprises even me. I step around him and feel the sting of it biting into the bare skin of my shoulder.
Ignoring its bite, I stand like a meat shield blocking him from the blows. He saved my life, the least I can do is save him some whip marks.
‘Are you an idiot?’ His voice is soft in my mind, giving away no infliction of emotion.
I fight the urge to look over my shoulder into those burning eyes. It’s never good to show too much attention to someone in here. What I just did is bad enough.
‘Sometimes.’ I answer.
Not meaning this time. I can see no real gain for him helping me. He did it just because. No one has ever done anything genuinely just for me—this man, this creature with nothing to gain, did. Something which my instincts tell me is fact, and that alone makes this a drop in the bucket compared to that.
“Bring her closer, I want to see the face of our newest guest.” A male voice orders, ringing with authority. The Magistrate himself. “Do not move a muscle to stop them, Beast,” he orders Phobe.
This time I do look at Phobe. Phobe’s eyes flare.
‘I’ve been to this rodeo before, nothing new.’ I snark, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from reacting as I’m jerked away from him.
“Well, she isn’t much.” The distaste in the Magistrate’s voice catches my full attention.
His golden eyes look at me like I’m the most despicable thing in the world. The feeling is completely mutual.
He’s slim and well-built, his muscles are clearly defined beneath the tight, purple, silk shirt he’s wearing. His face is classically handsome, rather round and soft. He doesn’t possess a strong jawline, it’s higher up and makes his chin end in a point. Hair as golden as the shiniest coin falls past his shoulders in little, corkscrew curls.
The magistrate is perfect like they all are. But I can see beyond the facade of brightly lit beauty. Past the false face on top. Beneath the layers of carefully constructed glamour, his chin is weak, the skin under his eyes baggy and discolored. He’s wearing lipstick, too.
Piercing glamour is a skillset of mine, I could do it since I was a child. For some reason, no one’s glamour works on me for long, if at all. And I can smell it in the air when it’s used.
Except with Big, Bad, Blue, over there.
The Magistrate has the look of a man who imbibes too often. No matter how much power he has here, he isn’t a strong-willed person. A coward with a title and probably a drug habit. Also, a fondness for lipstick and eyeliner.
“She is the one that you requested, sir. The trash that murdered your favored whore.” My head jerks up. I clench my teeth so hard they crack.
Whore? She was a fucking child! A suffering, tormented child. She couldn’t have been more than 12 freaking years old!
Tossed into the cafeteria like garbage, by some guards, her blue eye landed on me immediately. Crawling across the floor to me so slowly, my heart broke a little, so I walked to meet her.
In a choking whisper, she begged me to kill her.
Most of her face was a mess of shattered bone and raw tissue, clothes soaked red with blood and other fluids, giving hints to other injuries I couldn’t see. Sobbing, she lay her head on my lap, looking up at me with one bright blue eye. Pleading silently with me. This piece of shit broke her soul. He destroyed it.
With tears in my eyes, I kissed her cheek and I broke her neck.
This is why I’m here? He did that to her?
To keep from going nuclear and dying today, I exhale through my nose and calm my anger, letting it simmer. If I’m given the chance I’ll wring the life from the Magistrate.
After I shove his own dick down his throat.
He walks towards me and stops a few feet away, studying me like I’m an animal in a zoo. A full head taller than me, he doesn’t have a smidgen of the presence t
hat Phobe, standing so quietly beside me, does. It’s all an act. A mask covering a spoiled, perverted, little boy.
“What say you, gentlemen?” He steps back, and I see the two “well-dressed” men standing behind him. One of them a fair-haired human, who covers his nose with a monogrammed handkerchief. An eyesore in his pink shirt and striped pants. A quiet growl slips past my lips. An Aristo human here. The type I am very much accustomed to and despise.
“I would say she looks a bit defiant, sir.” The other comments. A Schoth, who plays with his monocle nervously, as he meets my eyes. A third man, soft-bellied man, dressed in a horridly yellow shirt. Is looking forward to the pain, anyone’s pain except his own. I can smell his excitement. I note the round, almost fat face. The too done up dark hair.
Using my slightly open mouth I further my knowledge about them.
They carry a lot of smells on them. Faint traces of sex. Of fear. Multiple scents are on their clothes, their skin from others. These fellas like to get around. Quite a bit.
Carefully, I take in everything visually.
The entire lot of them are dressed like Historic Royalty, which is a complete act. The lights around the room are electric, the guns the guards carry are probably the latest models.
It’s a shame they chose the time-period they did. Vivid, multicolored, striped breeches are not flattering. They look like that candy you find in those old glass dishes at Grandma’s house. All melted and stuck together.
In fact, looking all around the room makes me feel like I’m in a badly written historical romance novel. Minus the romance, of course. There’s an entire theme going here: a stretching rack sits in the corner, covered in dust. A rusty iron maiden looms on the far wall where various types of chains hang empty but not unused. Some are even hanging from the ceiling.
Hell, all they need are a few bloody heads on sticks to complete their little house of horrors theme.
The Magistrate, in his candy pants, moves into my direct line of vision again. Posing with one hand on his hip and his nose in the air, he looks at me.
“We shall have to remedy that.” He waves a hand and a familiar weapon, cat-o-nine tails, is placed in it. Worn and well-oiled—this thing is used often.
Fuck. I should be paying more attention to him, not his freaking furniture.
“A flogging can beat the defiance out of even the stoutest spine, sir. Good choice,” says the thinner one continuing to twirl that monocle. If I shove that thing up the little man’s ass, will he think that’s a good choice, too? I cut a dirty look to the idiot who is making my bad day get worse.
The way the Magistrate swings the weapon around shows familiarity. This isn’t the first time he’s used the awful thing.
Well, hell.
“Beast, take her to the wall. We will see how defiant she is after a taste of this.” I jump when Phobe’s hands wrap around my upper arms. Lifting me up, he carries me suspended in the air, at arm’s length to the nearest wall. He steps away, leaving me there alone to face what’s coming.
Resigned to the upcoming punishment, I study the wall in front of me. It’s stained with the dark brown tint of old blood. My scent glands tell me it’s the blood of more than one type of creature.
Soon, mine will liven up the decor.
The sound of the leather strips traveling through the air warns me enough to relax. As much as possible in this situation. It’s hard not to tense up and wait for the almost forgotten fire across my skin. But relaxing is the only way to come through this with as little damage as possible.
Instead, I’m shoved roughly into the wall by Phobe’s steel hands. He doesn’t even flinch when the strips of leather connect with his skin.
‘What are you doing?!’ I demand. He’s lucky I remember to do it silently.
“See how her defiance was a sham, gentleman? Already she is weeping and it has only just begun.” The amusement in the Magistrate’s voice makes me frown. It’s not me getting hit its Phobe.
What the fuck?
His hands slide up the wall to rest on either side of my shoulders. The heat of his body leaning towards me is tempered by the cold metal of the chains brushing against my back. What is this? I regard him over my shoulder and find his eyes on the wall in front of us. Not one spark of emotion swirls in them. Not even anger.
The sound of the leather hitting flesh again makes me wince, no reaction at all from him. Not even a twitch. His indifference makes me turn my entire body around in his grasp to face him.
The hairs on my body stand up. I know then why they can’t see what is really happening. Glamour, coming from Phobe, so thick in the air I can taste it. Interesting that Phobe can still do it even though he is bound by the stone.
Another secret revealed. What else is he hiding?
We’re almost an arms-length apart, and there’s no longer Darkness between us. It’s the only time he’s been completely exposed to my gaze. Brazenly I take the chance to study him. He’s tall, not gigantically so, but a full head taller than I and then some.
Broad shouldered yet lithe. But very solid, though. The sculpted chest, eye level with me, is a testament to that. I can’t help but stare at him despite the circumstances. I’m not an ogler, I’m an opportunist.
Looking at the masterpiece of him is, without a doubt, an opportunity.
His skin is a very light blue, and in the right light, might look pale white. It covers a body that looks like it’s lovingly carved from stone. Every muscle stretching his skin tight, perfectly defined. He has the most abb’ed-out stomach I’ve seen on a man, of any species. Flat and ridged all the way down the dirty brown pants that ride low on his slim hips. I make my eyes go back up to his chest, refusing to let my eyes go any lower.
I’m going to stop looking, sadist doesn’t go well with my first name.
Mostly.
Although, I did get a peek at his bare ass feet.
At that moment, something flashes on his skin. Followed by another flash. Before my eyes, lines began to darken and glow. Whorls of runes and shapes begin to trace along his shoulders, his arms, his stomach. And although I acknowledge them, they’re not what pulls my gaze—it’s the one that comes to life on his chest that holds my complete, attention.
I know the lines of it intimately because I have a similar one on my back.
Heat fills my cheeks as my temper rises. I clench my teeth, refusing to ask him why. After all, he’s the one that cleaned me up, stitched me together. He’s seen me naked every day since. Phobe already knows there’s a twin to that Rune on my skin. For some mysterious reason, he just doesn’t think it’s important enough to share.
Pride keeps my mouth shut. Barely.
The sound of the weapon striking his skin brings me back to reality. Cringing at the sound of the leather hitting his skin my anger fades. Secrets aside, I curse him loudly in my head. Knowing he hears me, knowing he has to be in pain. I’m not surprised when he doesn’t respond. Instead, he stands as still as a statue while taking my punishment.
What have these people done to him?
I look up into the eyes intently focusing on my face, swirling with flickers of thoughts I can’t interpret. I really need to learn to read him better. Those beautiful eyes of his that draw me into crash hard.
The bottom of my stomach feels as if it’s going to fall out when something causes them to flash orange. Wow.
The spell broken, he looks at something over his shoulder with such loathing I hope the person catches on fire. Doubtful, but I can hope.
As the nine strips of leather bite into his back again, I have to ask, why is he doing it? Why help me at the risk to himself?
Maybe he’s my hero after all.
A single step and he presses himself against me fully. Everything stops. Time, the people in the room around us. All I can feel is him. Feel his strong heartbeat against my face. Slow, steady. An irresistible lure for me to move my cheek against that beat. Closer, against the softness of his skin, the smell of him surround
ing me.
Warm, soft skin caresses mine from my face to my hips. Bringing every inch of me to life. The feeling of night’s embrace wrapping me in a blanket of home. My eyes drift closed, and for just a few of those heartbeats, the essence of him is all I know.
For the first time in my life, I feel safe. And blatantly…aroused?
“Now take her back to her cell, I have a dinner to attend.” My eyes jerk open at the Magistrate’s words.
Phobe steps back from me, and bending over, uses his shoulder to lift me up and over like a sack of flour. Being suddenly upside down makes me shamefully squeak in surprise. Held in his iron grasp, all I can do is watch the floor move swiftly below me.
What the hell is this thing between us? Only an idiot wouldn’t have felt his arousal.
Just as suddenly, he places me on shaking legs, and the cell door shuts with a clang. I stand there with my eyes closed, waiting for Vertigo to fade. It takes a few minutes for the main wave to pass. I refuse to open my eyes even when it does. I can still smell him on my skin. Feel him. I don’t want to leave that yet.
Reluctantly, when I do open my eyes, I find Phobe standing there—in my cell, looking at me again with one of those indecipherable looks.
He should come with a manual or something. Some way to translate the enigma that is Phobe.
“Lay on your stomach, and I’ll clean your back,” I offer, feeling that it is the least I can do.
He turns his back to me without a word. My mouth falls open in surprise. Not a single mark mars his skin. Blue streaks and tattoos are all over but no wounds. I snap my mouth shut.
Running a hand over the smooth skin of his back and through still wet blue blood, I discover there isn’t a single mark from where the cat-o-nine tails that supposedly hit him. Not even a welt. Shit, not even a red mark. What the hell?
“I heal instantly.” He answers my unasked question and points at the floor, a silent order for me to park my butt there. “You do not.”
For a moment, I have to fight my own stubbornness. He’s right...my shoulders are letting me know, in no uncertain terms, that my wounds have not insta-healed. Giving up the pointless argument forming in my brain, I do as bid and lay on the floor.
