by Zoe Parker
Great job finding the loophole, Phobe.
I almost smile but my head hurts too much. I want him to bite Darvena, to see her die. I want to see her blood paint the room. That is something I’ll enjoy watching him do.
It's strange the Magistrate is allowing it to continue. Unless he doesn’t know how deadly Phobe’s bite is. Or the loophole that Arick gave him.
“That’s enough!” Arick shouts realizing perhaps how much danger his asshole of a girlfriend is in. Phobe moves away from Darvena in a blink. Letting her collapse in an almost naked, undignified heap on the bed.
Briefly, I shut my eyes and store away the humiliation, the hate, the need to hurt them in that place that I put all those emotions. One day I’ll open that door. Today isn’t that day.
“Come, Darvena, arouse me.” I turn my head to look at Darvena as Arick speaks. She doesn’t look happy at all but it is quickly hidden. Phobe is already moving towards me. In two steps, he is at my side, unshackling me.
‘What was that shit?’ The frustration in my words is as much at myself for asking.
‘A distraction.’
That’s what I get for asking.
“Give her 5 more strikes with the flail for being a disappointment to the Magistrate.” Phobe’s eyes harden at Darvena’s words. “Then remove yourselves from our presence.” I’m not stupid, Darvena’s pissed off Phobe didn’t bang her.
Although, she did try really, really hard to get him...hard.
When I start paying attention again, Phobe has already grabbed the cursed thing. He stands next to the door we entered in, flail in hand. Walking slowly towards him, I fight the tilting room, falling wouldn’t be wise right now. Leaning against the wall next to where he stands, I take a few deep breaths as I fight for my balance. And my stomach’s sake.
“Begin or I’ll add 5.” Darvena’s biting voice surprises me.
I want to bash the bitches face in. If I get the chance, Darvena will die. For right now, it’s good to know her “karma” is currently slobbering all over her.
Phobe takes the two steps between us and looks down at me. Without a word, he turns me to face the wall. Not a sound escapes me as the hits begin.
By the time he gets to four, I’m on the floor, sobbing. Phobe isn’t hitting nearly as hard as he can. Merely hard enough to appear like it’s much more. The problem is, you don't have to hit hard with a flail for it to hurt.
They can never know he takes it easy.
This time the unconsciousness is real, I come to being carried over his shoulder again. Without shame, I puke all over the back of his legs soaking his brown pants.
The movement of him placing me on the floor makes me puke again. Oh well, nothing to be done about it. It’s more dry heaves than anything. Not like I had much food in there. I put my face on the cold stone floor to try and get the room to stop spinning.
Blackness tickles the edge of my mind. Not really up to fighting it I let it take me into oblivion.
Twelve
Phobe
Deep breathing and the silence of her active thoughts tells me she is sound asleep. I lay on the floor, beside of her, where I situated myself after cleaning her and my pants up, again. I roll onto my side, and after a moment of holding my hand over her head, I give in and with my fingertips, stroke her hair.
I can still taste her on my tongue. A rich flavor that leaves me wanting to taste more. Needing to taste more. Fighting that need is becoming harder and harder every day. It is not something I am accustomed to, nor something I am dealing with very well.
Giving in, for the few minutes I did…now it will be so much harder to resist.
Kissing her, touching her felt so good. I had forgotten about everything in the room but her. Forgotten everything but the feel of her skin, the taste of her mouth. For the first time in ages, I tasted freedom—free enough that I was tempted to lose control.
I almost did. With the glamour hiding what was really transpiring between us from view, it was close.
That primal side of me, that she rarely sees, gave neither of us a choice about me going as far as I did. It was completely real between us. I have never been able to glamour her, she sees me for what I am. When I am not using the shadows.
What happened between us is not what Arick ordered, or what Arick and Darvena saw. That was all me. When Arick’s order forced me to stop, when I had to take the passion and turn it into pain, I almost begged.
I have never begged in my entire existence.
I know with a conviction I cannot explain, with an unbreakable surety, what and who she is now. As I kissed her I slipped fully into her mind. She has knowledge but it’s scattered. An inkling of an idea, maybe, but she does not know for sure. Does not want to know for sure.
I know.
Some instinctual part of me has known since the first time I saw her young, bloody face in the dark. It doesn’t mean I like it, doesn’t mean I want it.
She represents something so foreign to me that I have never contemplated the idea. Something that pulls on softer parts of me that didn’t exist until she came here.
The need to be as close to her as I can possibly be, and the urge to run away as fast and far as I can get. She is something so unexpected in my life. It is all up and down.
I want her, fuck I want her but she…she…fucking scares the hell out of me. Fear is not something I have felt, either. Neither is desire. All of them are her fault. I can blame this on her entirely.
Blaming her changes nothing.
I force myself to stop touching her, tucking my hand under my cheek to keep myself in control. I am the one who caused the injuries she now bears, flinching every single time I hit her. Fighting the order as much as possible. Which surprisingly, I was able to do to some degree. If I had hit Iza as hard as I can hit, she would be no more.
It feels…wrong to cause her pain.
While I wish there is a way to get her away from here, to save her—save myself—I haven’t found one possible way to do it. I am a slave.
They will continue to use her, try to break her, until Arick or Darvena tire of the games and finally execute her. Even my attempts to protect her fail. My glamour can only go so far with my powers bound. In the end, it can only lead to more abuse for her.
Protecting anyone is not something I have felt the need to do. At times, with her, I can’t help myself. There is this drive inside of me to do it.
I now know why, or am just now willing to admit it to myself. With her death, there will be this hole left inside of me.
She sighs in her sleep and my heart rate increases. My jaw clenches a few times. It seems there is no stopping it. Fate always gets her way, the old bitch.
Covering Iza’s hand with my own, I stroke my thumb across her knuckles. Marveling at the little blue lines that still follow my touch on her skin.
After a quick check that the bleeding on her head has stopped. I pull my hand away, for good this time, and roll over to stare at the ceiling. Iza is not a believer in fate. She scoffs at it often. She already knows about part of the prophecy. Clarifying she is indeed part of that grand plan is going to piss her off.
She isn’t ready yet…and really, neither am I.
Thirteen
Iza
The sting of him cleaning my shoulder pulls me from the clinging strings of sleep. Well, that happened. Last night is foggy but I remember puking on him. Ugh.
A cool cloth lightly follows the brief stings. So careful, so gentle. It’s the opposite of what I so recently expected him to be like.
Relaxing, as the cool water soothes the burning of the healing wounds, the pain won’t last too much longer. It’s really the only reason I survived to reach adulthood.
Already I can feel the itching that signifies that within a week they will be almost healed. I do a quick inventory of my now partially damp body. I feel cleaner. He bathed me without waking me up. Phobe is always as light-handed as possible. The first time, I was shocked. Now I know that it’s
part of who he can be.
Instead of vomit, I can smell soap and only him now. It makes me feel better and pleases me in a gooey feely type of way.
‘I wouldn’t have stopped were it not for the order.’ Stopped? Oh. The kiss.
Sleep clears from my head in a second flat. I have mixed reactions to that statement. I’m not sure which direction to go. We are delving into an area I am completely ignorant of on so many levels, one I figure he doesn’t know either.
‘Did you stop with the…others?’ I question, curious despite myself.
‘I was not ordered to touch you in that way. I was ordered to beat you with the flail.’ Which he did, marvelously. ‘If given a chance I will do it again.’ He continues.
Well. Hell. What do I say to that?
‘This is where I ask, you don’t mean the flail do you?’
He contemplates me a moment.
‘This life is nothing new to you.’ An obvious subject change.
The temptation to push the subject of our encounter is there, but I change my mind. If I push there will be no answers.
We are similar in that way.
“It doesn’t matter.” I elect to answer out loud.
I’m not prodding him. But I have no problem making him aware that if he’s not going to answer questions, then neither am I. I yawn, wincing as the scab on my lip tears. Hot blood wells and drips down my chin. I freeze as his hot, wet, extremely long tongue licks it away.
“What the shit?” I whisper.
Seconds pass yet his face remains inscrutable.
“You need to sleep more. You head wound is still open.” He says calmly acting like he didn’t just lick my flipping face.
A wave of exhaustion hits me, killing most of the questions swirling in my mind. I realize right then that it’s him making me sleepy.
The sneaky fucker.
I don’t completely hold it against him. Mostly. Sleep means healing. With heavy eyes, I look over at him lying beside of me. Closer than he has before. He’s lying on his back, looking at the ceiling his eyes bright in the dark. Unable to cling to wakefulness any longer, my eyes drift shut and sleep once again claims me.
Fourteen
Phobe
Iza is smarter than I gave her credit for. She figured out that I keep putting her to sleep. That surprises me, to some degree. She has moments of vivid clear logic and others she seems to be muddled and lost in her own head.
I think some of it is lack of food and other parts are because of what she has experienced in this place and how she coped with it.
Today I managed to get her some food. It is not much. A half bowl of some sort of soup. But she will not decline my offer. I left it on the floor beside of her, far enough away she won’t spill it but close enough she will see it.
Sneaking around is getting harder.
I can glamour, yes, but there are wards I cannot get around. If not for those wards I would raid the kitchens and stockpile food for her.
It would simplify some things and make her stronger. The strength she needs for what is coming.
If I thought Iza would eat him, I would feed her Jameson. My gut tells me she will be very upset with me if I do such a thing. Tilting my head to the side I study her. Weighing the risks of upsetting her versus feeding her Jameson and staving off starvation.
I sigh. She will not eat him knowingly and possibly will not forgive the transgression of me tricking her.
Iza isn’t human but she has a soft heart.
I do not. And I will not allow a soft her to get her killed.
Iza even frets about the sexual moments with Darvena. Not in jealousy but righteousness, she thinks they are raping me. Rages in her head about it. Perhaps, they are. But I feel nothing but slightly dirty and frustrated that Darvena keeps trying. My body will never respond to her.
Suffering through it also has a perk. When Darvena is trying in vain to arouse me, Iza is typically left alone. Until this moment I did not realize that there is a chance I have drawn Darvena’s disgusting desires on purpose.
My eyes fall on the lock of dirty hair falling over Iza’s face.
Oh yes, it is on purpose.
Fifteen
Iza
The days run together. Time is not something I can keep a firm grasp of in here. Too many days have passed for me to try. I lost track a long time ago. Not that there's an actual point to tracking them, but a sense of timelessness isn’t good either.
I’d rather have the morbid countdown in my head.
Pacing, I fight the urge to scratch the itchy skin of my shoulder against the wall. My back is tender, and I still baby it a bit. At least it’s healing. Remarkably well, in fact. More quickly than I expected. Hell, if they keep from smacking me with something for a week or two I'll completely heal.
That will also require me to keep my mouth shut.
The only time I seem to be able to do that is when they threaten to give me to the guards. A chill skitters through me. They watch me like vultures waiting for me to die, creepy bastards, circling closer around me every day. It’s a really good motivator to zip my mouth.
Other times it’s because Phobe will try to take the punishment my mouth has gotten me into. It's a habit he’s practiced, off and on, since the ‘incident’. The one where our lips touched and then I was beaten stupid with a flail.
It isn’t very often but he somehow inserts himself into the truly awful stuff. I don’t hold it against him at all, it's really not his fault. Of their own accord, my eyes seek him out.
Phobe is currently on his one thousandth push up. He only does them after one of those ‘touchy feely’ nights with Darvena. Ones they now completely leave me out of. They brought in other women, several of them. Beautiful women that most men would do anything for.
I saw, first-hand, the difference between what Phobe actually does and what the others see. He doesn’t touch a single one of them unless Arick specifically says so. Which Arick often doesn’t. It’s more of them touching Phobe. Not that it matters.
Those nights are long and bother me more than most of the other crap they come up with to entertain themselves. He never responds to them, and still, Darvena tries. No matter what she does, nothing works.
Asking him why Darvena is so determined is also pointless. He just ignores the question and continues like I didn’t ask. He’s just weird that way. He’s a healthy male, and some of these women border on blindingly beautiful. Like Darvena.
Yet, none of them…arouse him. Not like when he kissed me.
Phobe is a genius at faking it.
His glamour is impeccable, except that I can see through it. It’s also a bit of a puzzle to me. Not the glamour itself but how he is able to manipulate it on such a large scale. I tilt my head to the side.
Exactly how much is he hiding from them? Is it why they continue in the same pattern?
It won’t surprise me too much if he hides everything. Arick has no idea what Phobe truly is. No idea of what he is capable of. Only an idiot can’t see the power packed inside of him. That spoke a lot of the Magistrate’s intelligence.
Watching the muscles on Phobe's back flexing with movement, makes me look down at myself. My body is pretty thin, but not naturally so. The lack of food is the only thing keeping me this way. Other than the occasional bits from Phobe and Jameson, I don’t eat. Plus, Phobe has me doing that Kung-Fu shit every day now.
Not that it matters in my case, right?
I will never leave this place—alive anyhow.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here or how long before I am removed from life, but eventually it will happen. Unless I escape.
Is escape at all possible?
Sitting here just waiting on death isn’t very productive, also very unusual for me. Either I have gotten smarter about choosing when to fight, or I’ve kind of given up. Giving up strikes me as just plain wrong. Although, I've been tempted by it more than once.
Soon, very soon I have to think of something. Moti
vate myself, or I am definitely dying. Sick of depressing, unproductive thoughts, I push them to the back of my brain.
“God, what I’d give for a donut,” I mumble, Phobe looks at me oddly.
“What kind of donut?”
I smile a little at his question. Phobe knows more than I realized about the outside world.
“Cinnamon.”
“You smell like cinnamon.” Caught off guard by the comment, I sit up.
“I do?” I sniff myself and grunt at my own silliness. “To me, I just smell funky.”
“Not funky, just sweaty.”
My eyebrow shoots up. Hesitantly, I sniff myself again, making a face. I really do smell sweaty.
“Where did you put that pail of water?”
The corners of his mouth twitch. Without another word, he stands and fetches the pail of water from the corner. A couple of pieces of cloth appear in his hand, from thin air apparently, he sits them beside me on the floor.
How very…nice of him. I am instantly suspicious. Immediately, I shake it off. What can he possibly gain from me bathing other than his nose catching a break?
Privacy doesn’t exist here. Shrugging, I stand and let the thin blanket fall to the floor. Without hesitation, I dip a cloth in the water and begin to wash. A sliver of soap appears in his hand. (Where in the world does he get all this stuff from?) He holds it out in front of me. I take it without question.
Come on, it’s soap. Soap equals clean.
For once, I’m not worried about the water. Somehow, he always gets water, and I'm pretty sure I'm not going to die of thirst anymore. Suspicious I may be, of any good fortune, but I won’t turn it down.
Not as rare as it is.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise. I jerk my eyes up, and sure enough, he is watching me. That look in his eyes is new.
Stop with the mojo, Phobe.
“Do you ever eat normal food?” I blurt out to distract myself from thinking too much about that look.
