Page 41 of A Dance of Water (Moon Song #2)

UNLEASH THE WAVES

THAREN

T haren walked into the dungeons with a bothersome demon at his heels.

"You’d better thank me for this, beast," the mage barked as they walked deeper into the darkness of the dungeons.

Screams carried on the stale air, and Tharen couldn’t contain his depraved glee at the prospect of bloodshed.

Fuck, the iron tang of blood made him aroused; his cock hardened, and he resisted the urge to palm himself right here in the dungeons.

He needed to fuck. Now.

All he could think of was the meek, white-haired Princess resting in the castle…

He wanted to run back up the stairs and rip the clothes from his lamb’s body, taste every bit of her, see if the space between her thighs was as sweet as the rest of her.

Make her big blue eyes fucking glassy with tears.

Make her cry out his name for once, and not the gods her kind worshiped.

"I’ll thank you for nothing," Azgorath growled. "I’m doing this for Lu—because he dared to lay a hand on her. He deserves to suffer."

"You’re only coming down here because I allowed it, beast. Don’t forget that," Tharen warned as they rounded the corner.

Azgorath said nothing.

Tharen watched the demon. Azgorath looked at home here in the darkness of the deep dungeons. The firelight cast his deeply tanned skin in shadows, making the muscles on his body appear larger. His horns were menacing, towering over his head of dark brown curls.

If nothing else, Tharen would want the demon here just to make Luella’s attacker shit himself from fear—if he wasn’t already loose in the bowels from being alone with Graves.

The pained groans grew louder. As they rounded the corner, Tharen couldn’t stop himself from shoving past the demon and nearly lurching forward to get a glimpse of the bloodshed that lingered in the air, to see whatever Graves was doing to elicit such beautiful sounds.

The sight didn’t disappoint.

The hot scent of blood pierced the dank cold of the dungeons.

Tharen groaned low.

Azgorath sidled up to him, elbow digging into Tharen’s ribs as he spat lowly, "Deranged fucker."

Could Azgorath blame him for being so aroused by the sight of blood? He was soft-hearted, sure, but the demon was still just that: a demon. And demons were the most deranged of them all.

The fae male was strung up by one wrist, his fingers limp as they curled around the chain protectively. White bone jaggedly protruded out of one knuckle, and his entire body was coated with sweat and blood, lines crisscrossing over his bare chest and arms.

Tharen fixated on the male’s other hand, fingers bent and crooked. One of them fit with a screw, bloody bits of flesh oozing from the side and mingling with the already rusted, blood-stained metal.

But it was the stilted, pain-tinged conversation that gave the Prima pause.

Graves’s soft words lingered in the air: "You shouldn’t have touched her."

Aw. Look at that. He cared .

The memory of Luella, soaked with water and shivering on the snowy shoreline, made Tharen’s hands clench into fists, jaw gritting.

Graves shifted his head, the rustling of his cloak filling the silence. Tharen knew he couldn’t get anything past the damned male…

Discovered—perhaps long before they entered the cell—Tharen decided to announce his presence to their captive… "No, he shouldn’t have."

The male jerked in his chains, head craning to peer around Graves’s shoulder as he spotted Tharen looming in the entryway, white braids standing stark in the dark cell. Behind him, Azgorath cracked his knuckles.

"No, no!" The male strained against his chains as they walked into the room. "Let me go!"

Urgent prayers fell from his lips. Tharen rolled his eyes. Like any of the gods cared about such scum.

"I waited," Graves said, ignoring the screaming male in their midst.

"Not patiently," Tharen retorted, trailing a hand over the cart filled with instruments of torture—the Knight’s proclivity, but not his. Tharen enjoyed putting his magic to good use when it came to torture. "What, was it too hard to leave some skin for the rest of us?"

Graves clicked his tongue and met Azgorath’s eyes. "We are not to kill him yet; the King wants him alive."

The captive let out a low sound of relief, body shaking with leftover adrenaline.

Azgorath growled. "I don’t have to listen to him. He’s not my King anymore."

Tharen placed a hand on the demon’s chest and quickly shoved him back. "You will listen, or you will leave." Magic sparked on his fingertips, a measly threat; they all knew they couldn’t maim each other.

"He deserves to die for touching her. For even looking at her." Tendons strained in the demon’s neck as he spoke.

Silent Graves merely watched.

"Hurt him, fucking rip out his eyeballs for all I care. So long as he lives. Vale demands it, and we follow through." Tharen’s tone was icy, the air crackling with his magic. "No questions, no godsdamned slip-ups."

The demon shut his eyes, breaths heavy .

Tharen knew he would agree—for the sake of his precious Lu .

Finally, the Knight spoke… "You may have the killing blow, but only when the King says he is to die."

Azgorath’s eyes popped open, murderous intent shining in their amber depths. He stepped away from Tharen and loomed over the captive.

"You hear that?" the demon taunted. "Your life is in my hands, and I’ll take pleasure in ripping you apart and making you suffer like she did."

Tharen’s lip curled. "I wanted to kill him."

"You can still have your fun," Graves replied.

The Prima rolled his eyes, hands alighting with sparks as he contemplated the possibilities.

Azgorath shook out his hand before he curled it into a fist, slamming it into the fae male’s stomach.

Bone cracked. Oh, look at that, the fucker got a rib. Maybe having a demon with preternatural strength would be fun .

The more agony the fae bastard was in, the better. Every rodent-like, painful squeal just encouraged him.

The sparks in Tharen’s hands turned to ash, flickering and falling to the floor as he thought. Water. That’s what he would do.

Swirls of icy liquid danced along his palms, growing larger and larger, coating the room in shifting, prismatic patterns of light.

The Prima jerked his head, ordering the two males back away from their captive. Blood splattered Azgorath’s clothes, his knuckles were coated in it. Strangely, the Knight was free of blood.

The fae male’s screams were drowned out by the roar of the waves.

With a flick of his hand, the water stopped, poised over the male’s head.

"Because she could’ve drowned," Tharen hissed, voice filled with savagery. "Let’s see if you can still scream when your lungs are filled with water."

And he unleashed the waves.