Page 26 of Crown of Serpents

The hatch creaked open, heavy boots descending the ladder with a thud. The familiar scent of thyme, leather, and sweat wafted down, announcing her captor's return.

“Back already?” Medusa groaned.

She was in no mood for another interrogation. She could not stand being confronted with her memories yet again. The images from her nightmare still haunted her — icy water filling her lungs, strong hands bruising her wrists, and Athena’s unforgiving face.

“How did you know it was me?” he asked, leaning against the prison bars.

“Your stench gives you away.”

“Well, aren’t youcharming?”

Medusa straightened her back. She twirled a lock of green hair between her fingers and, for the first time, spoke softly. “To brutish men that keep me in a cell? Always.”

Her captor hesitated, confused by her sudden shift in demeanour. Did he truly believe her to be nothing more than a feral beast?

“Does that mean you’ll answer my questions this time?”

“Depends — did you bring a whip this time?”

“I did not.”

“Then, why would I tell you anything?” Medusa leaned back against the damp wall and flashed him a wicked grin.

It did not falter — even as her limbs groaned in pain at the movement. She might be his captive, but she would remain in charge of this pathetic excuse of an interrogation.

“Because if you do, I’ll find someone to treat that wound of yours,” he proposed with a steady voice.

Medusa spat, “I’d rather succumb to my festering wound than let your filthy men touch me.”

“Well, by the look of that oozing gash, that might just happen. And if I had to guess … I’d say you have two to three days left to live.”

He did his best to keep his voice calm, but the sound of him gripping the prison bars betrayed the storm brewing within him. Why had her defiance irritated him that much?

Medusa merely scoffed.

“Do you honestly want to go like this? Just tell me what I want to know, and we’ll heal you,” he barked back.

“Again, I’d rather skewer myself on a stake than let your pitiful men touch me!”

It had been long since she had interacted with a man for longer than she needed to petrify or decapitate him. She had not missed it. They were all self-absorbed, conceited jackasses who expected women to swoon at any sign of chivalry. What made him think that she would accept any help from him of all people? Without him, she would have long cleaned her wound and made a poultice from the herbs by the stream. She would not have this fever, nor would she need his healer.

“Why do you hate us so much?” he asked, thunder rumblingin his low voice.

Medusa jiggled her chains in exasperation. “I'm shackled in the bowels of this damned vessel, bound for gods know where. Do I need more reason than this?”

“Believe me,” he whispered, “for most of my men, the feeling is mutual. They’d love nothing more than for me to return to the deck with your severed head in my hands.”

Uncowed, Medusa leaned closer. “Then why don’t you do us all a favour and kill me already?”

Suddenly, her head erupted in a familiar pain. Her green curls vanished, replaced by a writhing nest of vipers, their whispers demanding blood.

“Because I don’t fight the weak or the wounded. Let me stitch you up, and in a few days, I’ll grant you your wish — and that’s a promise.”

No mercy fuelled this man. He'd gladly butcher her before a baying audience. Had she seen his eyes, they'd be twin pits of murder-lust. She lived only to become his trophy.

Keys jingled, and the cell door squeaked as he stepped inside.

She backed, seething, “Don’t you dare come near me.”

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