Hell On Wheels

by Rhyll Biest

  Dazed, wheezing and coughing, she looked up from the marble floor as a multitude of gasps echoed through the room. She rubbed her bruised throat and scanned the chamber. What was bugging the courtiers now? Fashion crimes?

  She followed their gazes.

  Adriel.

  Chapter 4

  Valeda’s breath hitched at the way the lamplight bounced off Adriel’s eyes and lit them crimson. He did not look happy.

  A black river of blood ran down his face and a blade jutted from between the plates of armour shielding one arm. Gore and mud was spattered across his black armour while the hard line of his jaw screamed danger.

  He advanced, black aura trailing like a mourning veil behind him, and snarled at a courtier who didn’t move out of his way fast enough, the sound rattling the stone walls.

  Deathly silence settled over the court as he halted before Shax, looming over him despite the raised throne Shax sat upon. Nose still dripping lavender blood, Shax waved a bejewelled hand at Valeda. ‘A gift for you, captain. As you know, I adore finding lost things. No need to thank me.’

  Adriel paused to extend a gauntleted hand to Valeda. She almost shuddered as his cold, steely fingers closed around hers but she quickly scooped up the fallen key to her collar before he pulled her to her feet.

  Once she stood, he took a firm grip on the end of her chain attached to the wall and yanked hard. A large chunk of stone ripped free from the pillar and smashed to the ground, sending deadly shards exploding in every direction. The courtiers squealed and ducked.

  Holding the chain high like an accusation, Adriel rested his awful, bloody gaze upon Shax. ‘You chained my wife?’

  Shax blinked and pointed at his nose. ‘She attacked me. See?’

  ‘Good for her.’ Letting Valeda’s chain drop, Adriel took two giant strides towards the throne. His black gauntlet stark against Shax’s pale throat, Adriel plucked the king from his throne and raised him so high that Shax’s feet, wedged into beaded slippers, flailed wildly.

  Valeda licked her dry lips. Payback was indeed a bitch.

  Adriel’s voice was a hoarse whisper as he delivered his message. ‘Nobody chains my bride but me.’ He gave Shax a bone-rattling shake before dropping him to the floor like a used rag.

  Shax gaped at Adriel, his violet eyes wide. But Valeda’s enjoyment of the moment was dimmed by the captain’s words.

  How dare he?

  And yet when Adriel wrapped an arm around her shoulders, his expression was so dark, so very don’t-even-fucking-think-about-it, that she kept her outrage to herself. Self-preservation was her middle name. She stared at the blade buried in his bicep. Had he not noticed it was there? Should she say something? Or was it better to let him slowly bleed out so she could make her escape?

  Adriel wrapped his other arm around her. Enfolded within a cocoon of warmth one second and blasted by the cold of the void the next, Valeda closed her eyes to fortify herself for whatever came next. Turnip-breath would want his revenge; she would bet on it.

  She blinked as they reappeared in a bed chamber, the fireplace lit. Unease nuzzled her nape as Adriel kept one steely arm wrapped around her.

  ‘You look unwell, princess.’

  Thirsty, hungry, tired and bruised, she nodded and was about to carefully disengage herself from him when his gaze dropped to her lips, arresting her breath. Not because it was obvious that he was thinking about kissing her, but because an eerie yellow had flooded his eyes, as raw and bright as egg yolk. She’d seen his eyes turn red when the light reflected off them, and she’d seen them their normal silver colour, but she’d never seen them yellow.

  A sudden change of eye colour was never a good sign. It could mean possession, transformation or something equally bad.

  She took several steps back, her gaze darting from his fearsome face to the obsidian walls of unrelieved black and the closed iron door. Who had a bedroom door made out of iron? A million unwelcome answers presented themselves. He may have throttled Shax in a way she found wholly satisfying but she refused to be kept prisoner—by anyone.

  He prowled closer, keen gaze skimming her curves, intent etched all over his hard features.

  ‘You can’t keep me here, turnip-breath,’ she blurted. Wow, awesome finesse, very subtle.

  He watched her as he tugged his iron gauntlets free. He captured one of her hands and gave it a careless, almost playful pull. To her relief the yellow receded from his eyes as he did so.

  ‘I can’t?’ He cocked his head.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  About to deliver a stinging retort, she instead stared as he released her hand to yank the blade free from his arm. Inky blood welled sluggishly from beneath his armour before dripping to the stone floor with a soft patter. As she stared at it, he unbuckled his shoulder armour and allowed it to fall with a clang to the stone floor.

  Why was he taking his armour off? She stiffened. If he was in the mood for love—and from what she’d heard about common soldiers they nearly always were—she had to change that mood. What could she say that would make him want her to leave—or better yet, make him want to leave? ‘Do you really expect me to live with you in this cultural wasteland? What am I to do to pass the time? Whittle turnips and take whoring lessons from the locals?’

  ‘Whoring lessons? Why don’t you take baby steps and start off by learning how to be friendly?’ He unbuckled his sword belt and let it drop.

  ‘Friendly,’ she sneered. ‘What does that involve here? How many orifices?’

  He stiffened and was silent as he fumbled with the buckles that held his chest plate in place. When he spoke his tone was sharp enough to flay flesh from bone. ‘None.’

  ‘Prove it by letting me go, turnip-breath.’

  ‘You signed an agreement. Or do you not understand the concept of honouring an agreement?’ His unwavering gaze promised disaster as he tossed his chest plate aside with a crash.

  ‘I just need to do something and then I’ll come back.’

  He drilled her with a look. ‘I’ve heard that one before.’

  She backed away from him but he grabbed the trailing chain and used it to reel her in. Leaning back, she threw her whole body into pulling away from him, but all she managed to do was tighten the collar around her throat and choke herself. She spluttered.

  There was something not quite right about his anger, as if it were being fed by an invisible source, and she definitely didn’t like the hard gleam in his nightmare-soaked silver eyes.

  He briefly inspected the blood trickling down his arm. As she watched, the flesh slowly began to knit itself back together. So, he had healing powers. Good for him. They weren’t strong enough to heal her, though.

  ‘I’m a little handicapped at the moment, my sweet, but as your new husband I’ll do my best to fulfil all your honeymoon expectations.’

  Her breath caught at his gaze. ‘One of my expectations is that you not scatter endearments upon me like bird droppings.’

  He didn’t rise to the bait. Rather, he watched her silently as he waited for her next move.

  She raised her chin. ‘You can’t keep me here.’

  He smiled so winningly he could have been flirting with her as he took her hand again. ‘Oh, I think you’ll find I can.’

  A coppery scent filled her nostrils as she stared into his steely, blood-rimmed eyes. How can she escape this? And what should she do about the awful, expectant part of her that was curious as to what he would do next?

  She smoothed her gown and swallowed, and his odd, gleaming gaze followed the movement of her throat with detached interest. An arm around her, a fist tangled in her hair, a tug, and she found her head tilted back, providing easy access to her lips.

  His dark head bent, his breath mingling with hers.

  ‘Don’t you dare, turnip-breath,’ she whispered. His long, angular jaw was so close to hers that she saw his muscles twitch as he swallowed, the flare of his nostrils as a slow push of air escaped him.
Molten gold leaked into his silver irises and drowned them in something not demon.

  What the …?

  She tried to wriggle free but he cupped her head and brought his face—a muscle jumping in his flushed cheek—so close she could count the striations of ochre running through the depths of his irises.

  ‘They’re changing again …’ Her absent heart hammered from a thousand miles away before lurching to a stop as he trailed his nose over her carotid, as if he were scenting her blood through her skin, ready to make a meal of her.

  Her skin prickled. He wouldn’t. Would he?

  He dipped his head, his breath on her skin hotter than Lymenia’s fiery touch, his lips brushing hers. ‘Open your eyes.’

  But she refused to look at the sleek, dangerous beast before her, whatever it—he was.

  ‘Look at me.’

  When she still refused, rough hands shook her. ‘I said look at me.’

  Her eyes flew open. The gold tide in his eyes had retreated. Had she imagined it? So close to him it was impossible to ignore the wing of midnight hair arching over his temple and, below, the savagely straight brows that challenged all of Hell—and her—to defy him.

  He was royally pissed with her but what a face. It made her feel things.

  She loathed feeling things.

  Trapped in his powerful embrace, her body grew confused. She despised him—from the tips of his boat-sized boots to his turnip-loving lips—and yet when his mouth finally brushed hers, she wasn’t sure whether she was being punished or rewarded. No, it had to be curiosity, that impulse to lean into his kiss and see what would happen.

  Her hand tightened on the warm muscle of his shoulder and her lids grew heavy as her wilfully disobedient lips parted. He grazed his closed lips lightly over hers, a teasing, possessive gesture.

  When her lips parted despite her best intentions, he groaned, and the sound hummed its way through her, reverberating in her bones and softening them. She closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek against the rasp of his stubble.

  A shudder shook his big frame, which she at first mistook for excitement, until he froze, his hand tightening painfully around her nape. It hurt. Her eyes flew open, just in time to see him avert his face with a harsh pant. But not before she’d caught a glimpse of the road map of black veins branching down the side of his throat, his eyes again the colour of raw yolks.

  She gasped and recoiled.

  What, by Lilith’s eternal glory, was that? Possession? He looked to be teetering on the edge of exploding into some kind of monster, the kind with arm-long fangs and eyes of death. The kind that liked to hug and kiss princesses before eating them.

  She twisted in his arms and spun free, and was surprised when instead of trying to bite her head off he released her, muttering something under his breath as he turned away.

  Two steps and her hand found the iron door. She tugged at the handle but it didn’t budge. Of course it was locked, of course. Was he behind her? A glance over her shoulder confirmed he still stood where she’d left him, his back turned as he struggled with whatever held him in its grip, his breathing ragged. For one second he looked over his shoulder and met her gaze before—strangely—looking away quickly. The black road map of veins and his ochre eyes, however, remained, and she had the odd sensation that they watched her, that whatever was behind them saw her.

  Her brother.

  A spiked whip lashed her synapses, forcing a sound from her. The captain’s head whipped around, his terrifying gaze settling upon her like a noose.

  Don’t let him trap you, don’t let either of them trap you. Hands shaking, she stabbed at her collar with the key, missed the key hole and dropped the key.

  ***

  She’s mine now.

  For several heartbeats, fire curtained Adriel’s vision and something wild and wired stirred within him. A savage baying filled his ears, whipping his blood into a frenzy and stinging his nerves.

  Blood, blood and thunder.

  A tremor shook his heart and a thousand parts of his brain lit up. Panic wires tripped, and alarms triggered throughout his conscious and subconscious. The curse shook every nook and cranny of his being.

  She crouched, searching for the key she’d dropped, the key to her collar.

  Get that key. His breath turned to a pant as he dived to wrestle her for it, their bodies colliding. As they tangled he did his best to ignore the way her breasts shifted against him. But even as he forced her hand open he was aware of the way they pressed warm and soft against his arm, round and firm, begging to be rubbed. Their touch echoed through his body, setting him alight.

  He met her eyes, full of hate as he slipped the key inside his tunic pocket, and a lick of shame scorched him. She didn’t want him, not at all, and yet his blood ran south every time he looked at her. Not to mention his wild excitement when he’d found her. Or his uncontrollable rage at seeing her chained and bruised, at smelling blood on her. The cuts were hidden beneath her skirts but they were there.

  Was she in pain?

  He didn’t know, couldn’t tell. Her mask was too good.

  ‘What was that?’

  There was horror in her voice, fear. And rightly so. He was afraid of the thing inside him too. Lead settled in his belly and he spoke through stiff lips. ‘Forget that, forget about everything except this one question: what’s it going to be? Good behaviour or chains for the rest of your marriage?’

  ‘My mother will have you flayed alive if she hears about this.’ Her marine eyes met his with their customary cool, but her thin tone betrayed her. She was shaken.

  Upsetting her chilly facade restored his own equilibrium remarkably, helped him to pull himself together. ‘Ah, yes, your mother. You have my sympathies by that account.’

  Valeda flicked him a mean look. ‘Sympathy? What use does a princess of Hell have for sympathy? Not that you even understand the word. When you’re not daydreaming about spurting arteries, then you’re pondering whose heart to rip out of their chest next. Your kind are the reason I choose to live topside. I’ll never—’ At the last minute she swallowed whatever she’d been about to say.

  Her silence prompted him to needle her. ‘Never what? Never fuck me? Never get invited to an inter-realm orgy? Never get that gold-plated stick out of your arse?’ He waited, breathless, for her reaction.

  Her hands tightened on the chain and she flashed him a warning look.

  He loved it.

  She narrowed her snow-flecked eyes. ‘Don’t you have a war to win? Or do you leave all the fighting to your brother?’

  Redirection. She was good at it. He smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be gone soon enough.’ Running a gentle finger down her cheek, he studied her. ‘And when I’m done kicking the enemy’s arse, I’m going to bring you to heel.’ He gave her credit for keeping her iciest mask in place as he continued to run a soft finger down her neck. He hooked a finger in the neckline of her wedding dress and gave the fabric a gentle tug. ‘This really is a nice dress.’

  Her brows drew together. ‘Don’t.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘You know.’

  Despite her stony face she sounded alarmed and it forced him to retreat, a little surprised at how quickly her fear bridled his recklessness and pulled him back into line like a sharp tug on a choke chain. He removed his hand and stepped back. ‘All right, even though the vile scent of Shax is all over your clothes, you can keep them—if you tell me why I can’t hear your heartbeat.’

  ***

  Relief mixed with an odd disappointment washed over Valeda and she blinked. ‘Why would you hear it?’

  ‘I hear everyone else’s.’

  She hadn’t realised his hearing was that acute.

  Before she could question him further about it, he bent to push the tattered hem of her gown aside and run a gentle hand over her bruised and lacerated legs. ‘How did this happen?’

  The mood change was so abrupt she blinked. As he crouched he looked up at
her, his rugged face querying.

  ‘The guards kicked me.’ If he was in a tender, caring mood, she could work with that. ‘If you unchain me I can heal myself.’

  He straightened, cocked his dark head, and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I promise to be good.’ Of course, ‘good’ was a very vague term open to wide interpretation.

  But his shrug dashed cold water on her hopes. ‘Sorry, princess, I have residual trust issues, something to do with the way you froze my nerves solid.’

  Ah, there was that. Perhaps it had been a mistake on her part to betray his trust so quickly. But no, he couldn’t help her. Only she could save herself. She slid him a demure look. ‘But you’re so strong and clever, turnip-breath, I’m sure that wouldn’t happen again.’

  A tic jumped in his lean cheek as he kneeled to lift the heavy bed and slide one of its legs through a chain link. He stood and studied the result before glancing at her. ‘You’re chained to my bed, with a collar around your neck that’s obviously got gorgon fat on it. What makes you think you’re in a good bargaining position, princess?’

  She scowled. He had all the subtlety of a meat grinder. If he were a book his spine would read Crushing Your Hope Under My Enormous Boots. ‘I thought you cared about my wellbeing.’

  ‘Oh, I do, but I also care about mine. Now, give me your leg so I can take a look at those lacerations. You don’t want them to get infected.’ He nodded at the lower half of her wedding dress.

  ‘I can heal them myself,’ she muttered.

  ‘Right, because you’re just brimming with demon strength right now, aren’t you? Bet you could kick my arse too if you really wanted to, but you just prefer to be all ladylike and suffer.’ He shook his head. ‘You high borns are all the same. You would sooner drop dead than ask for help.’ He shoved her backward onto the bed.

  She flailed, off balance both physically and emotionally. Why did he care if she was injured? She was his hostage and nothing more. His solicitous concern was just a strategy to temper her rabid aversion to him. Well, it wouldn’t work. She wished a plague of poxy Harpy sores upon him. And a codpiece filled with hedgehogs. And a prolonged turnip famine.