Page 50 of Wings of Lies
“Then what?”
He released his hand from the pommel, crossing his arms. “I’m here to ensure you get where you’re supposed to go.”
“Which is where?”
Why did I have to sound like that?So… pitiful.
He stood there and watched me hunch in on myself, lying in dirt and gravel. Swallowing, I shoved down the tears threatening to spill and welcomed the distraction of a different sort. “I need to pee.”
“Brock will take you.”
As if signaled, the older man came around the corner of the carriage. Or that’s what I thought it was supposed to be. It was more like a dirty, run-down, wooden box on wooden wheels—a thing of the past, much like the clothes they wore.
“Brock,” I pushed the harsh syllable out of my mouth, testing it out. “And you are?” I didn’t care, but the more logical part of me figured it was best to know.
“Aspen,” he stated with something I couldn’t pinpoint in his expression. There was no similar inquiry, which was what I expected. I was a prisoner. My name didn’t matter.
Scar-faced Brock grabbed my bicep and led me away like the captive I was. We walked into the forest of birch trees that were not birch trees. If I ignored the iridescent scars, they reminded me of the forest I had camped in with—I cut off the thought. I didn’t want to remember who caused this. Not while a calloused hand now dug into my bare skin, shoving me on. Each shove and stumble cut away at the little hope I had left.
“Here,” Brock pointed to a spot, moving in front of the tree to give me privacy. If you called two feet privacy. Prisoner, I kept reminding myself. I wouldn’t get the luxury of freedom or being more than a few feet from these—I still didn’t know what they were. If they were in Elora, they couldn’t be human. Angels, possibly, but I didn’t think to look that closely at their eyes. Those other creatures, Cacus and Bael, weren’t angels.
But then, what were they? Monsters? Demons? Some other creature species?
Inch by inch, I tugged down my joggers with my cuffed hands. Luckily, they were loose and untied, or I would’ve had to ask for help or wet myself. At one point, Brock glanced back to see what had been taking so long, and I shot him with my fiercest glare. He sneered in reply.
The surrounding area had no chirping or skittering animals to interrupt the silence. Instead, we were left with the noise of my dribble and the crunching taps of Brock’s foot.
Paused in a crouch, I shook myself like a wet dog, deprived of the luxury of toilet paper. Just one more thing to be happy about as Istruggled to inch my pants up. Before they reached my upper thighs, a hand latched onto my arm, yanking me away from the tree.
“Let’s go.” Brock shoved me forward. I tripped on my joggers, exposing more of myself. Mortified, I arched back to grab them, hurrying to pull them up, only to be shoved again. They fell to my hiking boots.
“Come on, put them on already,” he taunted.
The smile in his voice as he viewed my exposed privates twisted my stomach. My cheeks heated, and my throat tightened. The tears I tried so hard to hold back fell as I shimmied them up. Once they were in place, he continued his shoving, like I needed another reminder of how helpless I was.
“What do you want?” I cringed at the weak whine of my voice.
“Nothing.” Brock changed tactics, latching onto my arm, and dragging me behind him instead of shoving. The tip of my hiking boot caught onto a thin root, unbalancing me as Brock’s fingers pinched my skin, forcing me to regain my balance or be dragged.
“Then who does?” He stayed silent. “Who do you work for? Marcus? Are you a part of the Tenebrous Kingdom?”
“Seems you know more thanMarcus,”—he spat his name—“let on.”
“So, you work for Marcus?”
His fingernails dug into my skin, almost piercing through. “Never. Now shut up.”
We broke through the trees, and Brock dragged me to Aspen. Who sat on a dead log sharpening his sword. Brock shoved me in front of him, making me stumble, and left. I clamped down on my cheeks, tasting blood, welcoming the physical pain over the emotional one.
I stared down at Aspen, hoping he couldn’t see the dried streaks of tears that stuck to my cheeks.
“I see Brock didn’t have to carry your limp body back. Wasn’t sure after your foolish display from earlier.” He continued to move the whetstone across the edge of his curved blade, brown locks hiding most of his face.
I refused to say anything.
“You didn’t listen to me.”
Listen to him? About what? Being a prisoner without the right to know things?
