Page 185 of Eldritch
“Sounds familiar.” Zevander kept on with his push-ups, unimpressed.
“Tore his head clean off.”
Frowning, Zevander paused mid-push. “Who is this beastly Nyxterosi?”
“Goes by the name of Torryn.”
“Torryn? What’s he look like?” Zevander sank back on his knees, wiping the sweat from his brow on the back of his arm.
“Fairly good size. Thicker than you, for sure. Red hair shaved to the skull.”
Zevander nodded and took a sip of water from the table beside him. “That’s him. I grew up with him. Our fathers hunted together. The hell is he doing in the mines?”
“Overheard others say he killed a few Solassion guards. Been here a few years, from the sounds of it.”
Across the room, an orgoth stepped into the observatory and strode toward the two of them, eyes on Zevander. “General Loyce requests your presence in her chambers,” he said gruffly. “Now.”
Zevander groaned and dragged a hand down his face. Fucking hell, since he’d had the eighth piercing placed, she hadn’t given him one night of peace.
“If she tasks you with another assassination, do me the favor of checking your victim for weapons first.” Theron nodded toward the bandages wrapped at Zevander’s thigh. “Those stabs were a bit tricky.”
“I doubt that’s the purpose of her summoning.”
The orgoth pointed to Theron. “You, too. She has a wound to stitch.”
Zevander and Theron exchanged frowns and pushed to their feet, following after the orgoth through the winding corridors to Loyce’s bed chambers.
A violent crash of glass against wood bled through the door, and Zevander slowed his paces. Screams shattered any hope that she might’ve been in a better mood than the day before, whenhe’d last seen her. If those vicious ravings on the other side of the door were anything to go by, he dared to say her mood had worsened.
As Zevander swung the door open, an object flew straight for his head. He ducked instinctively, just missing a wine goblet that shattered against the wall behind him. A bellow of rage poured out of General Loyce, as she swept through the room, her hair a pile of ratted knots atop her head. He’d never seen the usually meticulous woman so disheveled.
She spun around and, on seeing him, froze in place.
Eyes rimmed in dark circles, as if she’d not slept, at all, she stood heaving. “King Jeret…has summoned…you.”
Her words failed to register at first, and Zevander stood blankly staring back at her. “The king.” His voice held an air of disbelief. “Are you joking?”
Her face soured to a grimace. “Do I look like I’m in a humorous mood? He’s requested your presence this afternoon.”
“For what?”
“Yourfreedom.” The words flung from her mouth like daggers. “Your traitorous king has petitioned King Jeret for your release. Oh, he made quite an offer for you. Jeret just couldn’t help himself.” She swiped up a candlestick from the bedside table and chucked it across the room, nearly hitting the orgoth, who flinched as it flew past his head. Jaw tight, she whisked toward Zevander like a gust of winter air, her robes trailing after her. “You must urge Jeret to return you to the Gildona.” Before he could draw back, she held tight to his arm. “Promise me you will, and I will see to all your comforts. Promise me this favor.”
The words she spoke, her pleading tone, it was all foreign to him. He’d never known the general to be anything less than cruel and demanding. Had never seen fear in her eyes until right then. Zevander bared his teeth and, face twisting with revulsion, pried his arm free. “I owe you nothing.”
Tightly wound rage seeped out of her with the quiver of her lip and twitch of her eye. “I could’ve destroyed you.”
“You already have.” Voice absent of emotion, he stared down at her, watching that fury simmer like a kettle.
“No. What you suffered is mild. I tookcarenot to inflict too much damage. You’ve no idea what I’mtrulycapable of.” Her palm cuffed his throat and gave a warning squeeze that failed to banish his apathy. “If you walk out of here, intent on accepting the king’s proposal, I’ll?—”
“You’ll what?” Zevander challenged, watching defeat slip across her face. “Beat me? Force me to pleasure you? Go on, then. Savor it. It’ll be the last time you lay hands on me.” A coiled fury unraveled slowly inside of him, the silence in his abuses screaming, clawing, begging him to reach out and throttle her, but he steeled himself. Because nothing he’d ever inflict on her would be more satisfying than watching her lose composure over his freedom. Watching her forced to unshackle him.
Teeth bared, she lunged to the side and swiped up the blade on the table from beside a glass of wine. The flash of steel curved toward his heart, but like the strike of a snake, Zevander caught her wrist before she could plunge that blade into his ribs. Her hand trembled as the dagger remained held between them.
“I’m finished with you.” With a pitying look, he released her, and without another word, he strode from the room.
A wine glass whizzed past him, smashing against the wall ahead. Zevander ignored it and kept on through the door, her screams and ravings trailing after him.
