Page 30 of Burned Alive to Be His
“Because the Eldest commands it,” I snarl, throwing a coil of rope to the floor. “Because a goddess demands an offering.Because our entire world, it seems, now revolves around you, human.”
“My name is Judith,” she says, her voice gaining that familiar, infuriating steel.
“Your name is an irrelevance!” I roar, turning on her, my control finally snapping. I stalk toward her, backing her up against a wall of glittering treasure. “You are a complication! A weakness! A chain around my neck! Do you think I want this? To drag your pathetic, fragile body up the side of a mountain that could kill you with a single, misplaced step?”
She does not flinch. She does not cower. She simply holds my gaze, her chin lifted. “Then don’t,” she says.
“What?” I demand, stunned.
“Don’t take me,” she says, her voice calm and reasonable. “Tell them I am too weak. Tell them I am unworthy. Leave me here. It is what you believe, is it not?”
I stare at her, at the challenge in her eyes. She is offering me an escape. A way out of Vorlag’s trap. All I have to do is declare her a failure. All I have to do is admit that my prize is worthless.
And I cannot.
A savage, possessive roar builds in my chest. She is not worthless. She survived the sea. She survived the Serpent’s Maw. She survived Grakar. She survivedme. She is the strongest, most resilient creature I have ever known. And she is mine.
“No,” I growl, the word torn from my throat. “You will not fail. Because I will not allow it.”
I turn back to the gear, my mind racing. The climb is not just a test for her. It is a test for me. I must prepare her. I must give her every advantage.
I pull out a thick, fur-lined cloak. “The summit is cold,” I grunt, tossing it to her. “The wind can strip the flesh from your bones.”
I find a pair of soft leather gloves. “The rock is sharp. It will tear your hands to pieces.”
I go to a pouch and pull out a handful of dried tizret fruit and a small, hard cake of journey bread. “The climb will take all day. You will need your strength.”
I work with a focused, frantic energy, my earlier rage replaced by a cold, sharp pragmatism. I check the shoes I made for her, reinforcing the leather bindings. I give her a small, sharp knife, its hilt wrapped in leather. “For the razor birds,” I say. “Aim for their eyes.”
She takes each item, her expression a mixture of confusion and a dawning understanding. She is not just a pawn to me. She is a warrior I am arming for battle.
When I am finished, I stand before her. She is a strange sight, a small human buried in the gear of a dragon warrior. But her eyes are not the eyes of a victim. They are the eyes of a survivor, ready for her next fight.
“You will listen to me,” I command, my voice low and intense. “You will do exactly as I say. You will not question my orders. You will not falter. Your life will be in my hands. Do you understand?”
She looks at me, at the gear she holds, at the fierce, desperate intensity in my eyes. I think she truly sees me. Not just the monster. Not just the captor. But the male who is terrified of losing his most precious treasure.
She gives a slow, deliberate nod. “I understand.”
“Good,” I grunt, turning away, the intimacy of the moment too much to bear. “Get some rest. We leave before the sun.”
I retreat to my own sleeping ledge, my back to her. But I do not rest. I spend the night listening to the sound of her breathing, the weight of her survival, of my own future, a heavy, suffocating presence in the warm, dark air of my cavern.
15
JUDITH
Ispend the night in his cavern, a prisoner in the dragon’s den. I do not sleep on the furs of his ledge, a place now tainted with a memory that is both a brand and a balm. Instead, I take the gear he has given me and retreat to a small, defensible alcove near the entrance, my back against the cold stone, my eyes on the shadows. He does not approach me. He remains on his ledge, a massive, wounded predator licking his wounds in the darkness. But I feel his gaze on me all night, a heavy, watchful presence.
Sleep does not come. My mind is a whirlwind, replaying the events on the cliff, the raw, agonized frustration in his eyes as he pulled me back from the edge.He will not let me die.The thought is a dangerous, thrilling seed taking root in the barren soil of my soul.
When the first, pale light of dawn begins to creep into the cavern, I am already awake. I eat the journey bread and dried fruit he gave me, the food a welcome weight in my stomach. I check the bindings on my makeshift shoes, the edge of my new knife, the weight of the fur-lined cloak. I am preparing for a trial, a climb to the heart of a volcano that will likely kill me. And yet,for the first time, I do not feel like a victim being led to slaughter. I feel like a warrior being armed for battle.
Xvitar rises from his ledge, his movements stiff and pained. He ignores me, focusing on his own preparations. He checks the bindings on his broken arm, his expression grim. He moves to a large, smooth obsidian sphere that sits on a natural pedestal of rock in the center of his hoard. It is the most perfect piece in his collection, and it seems to hold a place of honor. He runs his good hand over its cool, glassy surface, his expression unreadable.
And then, the world tilts.
The scent of sulfur and ash is gone, replaced by the smell of dust and old, spiced wine. I am in Lord Tarsus’s study. The obsidian sphere is there, on his desk, glinting in the magical lamplight. It is smaller than Xvitar’s, but identical in its perfect, light-swallowing blackness.
