Page 11 of Burned Alive to Be His
I stare at it, my mind reeling. He cooked it. For me.
A harsh, bitter laugh escapes my lips. It is not an act of kindness. I know that. It is an act of pragmatism. Of frustration. An admission that his way did not work.
I tear off a piece of the meat with my teeth. It is delicious. The taste of it is a victory. It is the taste of survival.
He had called me useless. And perhaps I am. A useless creature who cannot even eat proper food. But I am a uselesscreature who is still alive. And as I chew the warm, savory meat, I hide a small piece of it away in the back of my cave, a secret for the cold night ahead. Because I will survive this. I will survive him. And one day, I will be free.
6
XVITAR
Iwatch her from the shadows of my cavern entrance, a predator observing its prey. The night has fallen, and the cold is slithering down from the high peaks of Bloodstorm, a silent hunter that preys on the weak. The human is huddled in the back of her pathetic excuse for a shelter, a small, dark shape against the darker stone. She is not sleeping. I can feel the tension in her stillness, the hyper-vigilance of a creature that has never known safety.
A low growl rumbles through my chest, a sound of pure, undiluted annoyance. The feeling is a foreign irritant, a burr under my scales. I am annoyed that I cooked the meat. I am annoyed that I felt compelled to do so. I tell myself it was a matter of pragmatism. The creature is useless to the trials if she starves. Her defiance is intriguing, but a corpse has no will to be broken. My investment must be protected.
The logic is sound. It is the logic of a warrior, of a leader. But it does not soothe the restless fire in my gut. It does not explain why the image of her swallowing that raw meat, her dark eyes glistening with a mixture of tears and pure, unadulterated hate, is seared into my mind. It does not explain why the thought ofthe night’s cold seeping into her fragile bones makes my own muscles clench.
This is a weakness. A distraction. Grakar was right. She is a parasite, feeding not on our resources, but on my focus.
I turn away from the sight of her, my jaw tight. I stride deeper into my cavern, the air growing warmer, rich with the scent of my own power. My hoard glitters in the dim, magical light that emanates from the strange ores I have collected. Piles of sea-worn glass, the iridescent shells of leviathans, the fossilized bones of creatures long extinct. I run my hand over a large, perfectly smooth obsidian sphere, its surface cool and unyielding. These are my treasures. They are beautiful, they are rare, and they are silent. They do not challenge me. They do not look at me with eyes that see too much.
But the image of her persists. Small. Defiant. Cold.
Vell'os!The curse is a sharp bark in the silence of my cavern.
I cannot have my prize freezing to death before the trials have even truly begun. It would be an embarrassment. Vorlag would see it as a failure of my duty. Grakar would see it as proof of my weakness.
I snatch a large, cured pelt from a pile near my sleeping ledge. It is the hide of an ursain, thick and heavy, its fur a deep, lustrous black. It is a fine pelt, a trophy from a difficult hunt. It is too good for her. But it is the first one I grab.
I stalk back through the settlement, the pelt slung over my shoulder. The night is quiet now, most of my clan asleep in their own caverns. The only sounds are the hiss of the steam vents and the ever-present, hungry rumble of the volcano.
I reach her cave, a black maw in the side of the rock spire. She is still awake. I can feel her watching me, her senses as sharp as any wild thing’s. I stand at the entrance, the pelt a heavy weight on my shoulder. I should just toss it in, as I did the meat. A simple, impersonal transaction.
But I don’t.
A darker, more primal instinct takes hold. An urge to see her face, to reassert the order of things. To remind myself, and her, exactly what she is.
I step into the cave.
The air inside is frigid, a sharp contrast to the ambient heat of the island. She scrambles back, pressing herself against the far wall, a cornered animal. Her eyes are wide in the darkness, reflecting the faint starlight from outside. I can see the glint of the small, pathetic blade in her hand.
“I am not here to feed you scraps this time, human,” I say, my voice becoming a low growl.
I let the heavy pelt slide from my shoulder. It lands on the gritty floor with a soft, heavy thud.
She stares at it, then back at me, her expression a mixture of confusion and deep-seated suspicion. She does not understand. Good. Let her be off-balance.
“The nights are cold,” I state, as if explaining a complex strategy. “You are more valuable to me alive than frozen. Take it.”
She does not move. She simply watches me, her knuckles white where she grips her blade. Her silence is a physical thing, a wall she erects against me. And it infuriates me. It is a challenge, as clear as if she had spat in my face.
“Did you not hear me?” I demand, taking a step closer. The cave is small, and with two steps, I am looming over her. I am a mountain of shadow and heat, and she is a speck of dust at my feet. “It is a command.”
“I do not need your gifts,” she whispers, her voice trembling but laced with steel.
“It is not a gift,” I snarl, my patience shredding. “It is a tool. A resource. To keep my property from spoiling. Nothing more.”
“I am not your property.”
