Page 33 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY

ZEVANDER

Past …

H ands shackled in chains, Zevander found himself in the center of an opulent room that reminded him of an observatory with its domed ceiling and curved walls.

The white marble flooring, veined in gold, caught the sun’s light beaming from the open archways that offered no barrier to the scorching heat outside.

Around him lay about a dozen young men and women, roughly his age, scantily clad in loincloths.

Their pale, thin bodies indicated none of them had worked a day in the mines—at least, not recently.

He glanced around at their curious, but dismal, faces, all staring back at him.

The women wore nothing to cover their breasts, and much as Zevander tried to force himself to look away, he couldn’t help himself.

Aside from the occasional Bellatryx that prowled the mines, he hadn’t even seen a clothed woman in nearly six years, never mind a bared one.

Why he’d been brought to that place remained a burning mystery, as he drank in his surroundings.

Pain pulsed in his ankle, and he hobbled a step ahead of Warden Vicarek, who stood beside him, letting out a grunt as the agony shot up into his bones.

Once it had passed, Zevander straightened himself, taking in the adornments of golden leaves and ivy over the white pillars that were set about the room, with long white drapes between them.

A circular fountain with an expansive, sunken basin dominated the center of the room, where the water spouted out of a golden sculpture of the sea gods.

White, silk pillows and long, crumpled fabrics lay piled around the edge of the fountain, delicately draped over those who lounged there.

His gaze caught on a hook sticking out from one of the columns, and he couldn’t help but puzzle on its purpose.

Paintings that must’ve been ten feet tall hung about the room—graphic depictions of orgoths engaged in various sexual acts with Solassions—easily identified by their blond hair and bronze skin.

Zevander had been no more than a pubescent boy when he’d first been sent to the mines and had never been with a woman to know the intricacies of those paintings, though he had spied on the women in the brothels on the occasions he’d accompanied his father into town, so he knew enough to know the artwork’s intent.

“It’s said that every generation of Zephromyte becomes more mancer.” The mere sound of that voice tore through his mind like a jagged blade. The need to silence it had his hands balled into tight fists, as he turned to find General Loyce standing behind him.

“Open your mouth…now swallow.”

The memory of those words twisted his guts, as the rage burrowed into his muscles.

Even then, he could taste the ash on his tongue, could smell his father’s burnt flesh as he spat him out onto the concrete.

Tremors pulsing through his limbs pounded a steady cadence of violence, a desperate need to be unleashed.

Zevander clenched his jaw, tamped it down, and forced himself to remain steady.

Calm.

Do not let her crawl under your skin.

It was the first time he’d ever seen her without armor, and still she stood with her chin tipped up, her stance rigid and stiff.

She wore a loose tunic and trousers, her shoulders broad and muscled, though she didn’t lack in feminine qualities.

Flanking either side of her were two male Zephromytes—half mancer, half orgoth—easily distinguished by their excessively muscled build and long golden hair.

“Orgoths may look like beasts, but they are some of the most intelligent and resourceful beings in this world.”

Zevander had neither the energy, nor care, for conversation with her. It was only his curiosity wanting to know why he’d been sent to a place so rich with luxury.

She sniffed the air, crinkled her nose, and her eyes fell on the warden. “I’m certain that I instructed you to bathe him.”

“Apologies, General. I’m afraid we don’t have amenities to make him smell any better.”

Shifting her attention back to Zevander, she tilted her head in a curious way.

“I watched you defeat that orgoth. How clever to use his very means of defense against him.” She tilted her head to the side, running her finger over where the vitaelis vein would sit—not as prominent as a full-blooded orgoth’s, but Zevander could see it pulsing beneath her skin.

“Unlike orgoths with their tusks, Zephromytes must learn to protect their precious vulnerabilities in other ways.”

If there was one thing Zevander had gleaned from imprisonment, it was to always make a point to learn his captor’s weaknesses. Hers clearly wasn’t divulging the means to effectively kill her, so he didn’t bother to ask how she managed to protect her vulnerabilities.

She sauntered toward him until standing face to face, and her gaze lowered toward the scar on his cheek. “What is this?” she asked, sending a quick glance to the warden.

The warden rolled his shoulders back and crossed his hands in front of him. “We haven’t quite determined the cause of it.”

“Has it tainted his blood?” She addressed the warden again, as if Zevander couldn’t answer for himself.

“No. In fact, the hearty bastard seems resistant to the diseases in the mines. Hasn’t fallen ill once, as far as I know.”

Her eyes found Zevander again, lips curved to a half-smile.

“Strong. I like that. I want something fashioned to cover it up. The sight of it disgusts me, but I like him well enough to keep him.” She squeezed Zevander’s bicep—just as she had the first day he’d arrived at the mines as a boy—and sauntered away, toward the fountain. “You’re dismissed, Warden.”

“Of course, General.” He sneered as he stepped past Zevander. “Good luck,” he whispered and leaned in closer. “I don’t even give you a year.”

Zevander gnashed his molars, glaring after the warden, whose gaze lingered on the unclothed women as he exited the room.

“Prepare him for a bath,” General Loyce commanded, returning to his side and circling him as if he were the fresh catch at the market.

“I want him cleaned and properly groomed. Every trace of dirt is to be scrubbed.” A rough hand gripped his shoulder.

“ Sordesz vet signe da’servio,” she whispered.

“Filth is the mark of the slave, isn’t it? ”

“Tell me why I’m?—”

The moment Zevander spoke the words, a blade nicked his skin where she propped it just below his chin.

“You’re to demand nothing from me unless you no longer value your tongue.

” Not an idle threat, seeing as Zevander had once watched her cut a boy in half with her sword.

Turning her attention back to the soldiers, she gave a nod toward him. “Divest him.”

The soldiers stalked forward, and Zevander stepped back, raising his shackled fists in the air, ready to strike anyone who came near him.

A scar-faced soldier lurched first and swiped out his arms, but Zevander sidestepped when he attempted to grab him.

The bulky soldier stumbled forward to his knees, and when he twisted around, Zevander hammered his foot in the bastard’s face, cracking the Zephromyte across the cheek.

General Loyce let out a boisterous laugh. “You’re going to fight every soldier in this room with your wrists shackled? Bold, indeed.”

The next soldier charged forward, and Zevander slammed his fists together into the Zephromyte’s solid chest. A third came up from behind, clamping around him as they lifted him off the ground.

The crushing grip against his chest banished the air from his lungs, and Zevander let out a cough.

Lifting his feet, he drove his heels into the chest of the soldier in front of him, a jolt of pain throbbing throughout his leg.

His body came down hard against the marble floor, slamming into his spine with an agonizing zap that shot straight to his sinuses.

The room widened and shrank, and he shook his head, as two soldiers approached and hoisted him by his arms. He wriggled and kicked, but to no avail, and in spite of all his thrashing, they managed to secure a metal clamp around his neck, attached to two long poles that were clutched in the hands of the Zephromyte soldiers.

The moment Zevander attempted to get to his feet, both Zephromytes pushed down on the poles, and the cuff at his throat tightened, pressing hard against his windpipe.

Mouth agape, he fought to suck in a single breath, the pressure in his face swelling.

All at once, the soldiers let up on the poles, the cuff loosened again, and Zevander gasped a breath, turning to the side as he coughed and wheezed.

His body jostled with the rough movements of the guards, as they yanked away his thinning clothes, tearing the tattered fabric, until he lay naked in front of the general.

“Get him to his feet,” she ordered.

With little effort, the soldiers pressed on the poles just enough to prompt Zevander upright.

He clawed and scratched at the clamp squeezing his throat, while the soldiers pried him to his feet.

Once upright, they loosened their grip again, and Zevander stood on display, his manhood undisguised as he looked around at the others, who didn’t bother to spare his dignity.

While he’d grown used to being around other prisoners without clothing, the only woman who’d ever seen him that way was his own mother, years before he’d arrived at the mines.

Fascination lit the general’s face, the predatory sweep of her gaze churning a sickening shame in his stomach. “Now this…this is a body that was made for fucking.”

Humiliation burned his cheeks, and he lowered his arms to cover as much of himself as he could.

“What is it? You’ve never been the center of attention this way?

” The general circled him and ran her hand along the curve of his backside.

It was uncommon to have reached manhood with little to no experience with a woman, but even stranger that he’d neither been seen, nor touched, by one.

“Get used to it. Perhaps I’ll have you train to maintain your physique.

” A look of satisfaction gleamed in the general’s eyes while they skated over him, paying particular attention to where his hands covered his flesh. “Place him in the water.”

Both soldiers gripped his arms, and his heels scraped over the stone floor as they dragged him to the bath.

The water cooled his overheated skin, when they seated him onto a submerged stone bench that sank him deep enough for the surface to bob against his chest, then they lifted his arms toward that hook he’d spotted earlier.

Its purpose fast became clear when they fastened him to it by the chains at his wrists.

The general snapped her fingers, and two of the young women with long, blonde hair that failed to cover their bare breasts stepped forward. “Bathe him.”

Zevander’s heart pounded at the command.

His breathing shallowed, as they grabbed sea sponges from a basket at the edge of the bath and stepped into the water alongside him.

After soaking the sponges in soap poured from ornate bottles, they set the sponges to his skin, gently dragging them over his body.

Muscles shaking, he forced himself not to look at their naked forms, his eyes burning with both curiosity and humiliation.

“Well, well. It seems you like a woman’s touch. That’s good.” The general knelt at the edge of the bath, undoubtedly taking notice of the stiff flesh between his thighs. A reaction he desperately tried to tamp down by turning his thoughts to his father.

Yes. Father .

Eyes screwed shut, he allowed the misery of his father’s death to infect his mind and steal him away from the soft hands across his skin.

“Stroke him.” The general’s voice cut through those dark thoughts, and the moment a delicate hand met his engorged cock, he clenched his jaw and buried his face into his trussed arm.

“Please…don’t …” A battle waged inside his head. The curiosity of being touched by a woman was only a minor distraction from the shame of having a complete stranger fondle him that way.

“Stop,” General Loyce commanded, and their maddening caresses ceased, but his body remained coiled in a turbulent mix of pleasure and mortification. Muscles trembling, he took deep breaths, willing the sensation away.

A sharp sting burned across his thigh, and Zevander eyes shot open to see General Loyce gliding a dagger over his skin. He hissed at the fiery pain and the blood that seeped into the water in ribbons of red.

“Stroke him again.”

Once again, the tormenting sensation returned, and his mind scrambled to place himself back in that arena. His bones and muscles battered and sore. Eyes locked on his father’s.

“Open your eyes, or I’ll cut them out of your skull.” When he refused, she set the blade to his thigh again, drawing another agonizing streak across his flesh. “Open your eyes, or by the gods, they’ll be next.”

Zevander opened his eyes and glared back at her with the same hatred he’d felt toward the orgoth who’d crushed his father’s skull.

“You will give me your seed, or I will have you sent to the incinerator where the ill are burned.”

“I’d much prefer death,” he challenged.

Intrigue lit her eyes. “Is that so?” She gave a nod toward the soldiers, and the cuff slammed into his throat once again, forcing his head below the water’s surface.

Zevander kicked and writhed to get loose from their grip.

What little air he’d managed to suck in prior to being submerged beat against his chest for escape.

He shook against his chains, his muscles taut and burning, his lungs in flames.

“Stop fighting,” a voice he didn’t recognize spoke. “Let the darkness take you.”

He paid heed to the words.

An inky blackness filtered in from the fringes.