Page 38 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ZEVANDER
Past …
Z evander awoke to the scent of venison and warm bread, his mouth watering for a bite. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten meat that didn’t stink of rot. Years, maybe, but those delicious scents were unmistakable, stirring memories of home.
Across from him, the other members of the Gildona sat clustered around what must’ve been a feast, the way the smell of it overwhelmed his senses.
One of the young men, likely Solassion with his blond hair and bronze skin, broke away from the others and carried a plate toward him.
Zevander’s muscles tensed when the man sat down beside him, offering the piled food—venison and bread, just as he’d guessed, along with grapes, olives and figs.
Delicacies he hadn’t had since before he’d arrived at the prison.
He cautiously accepted the plate, eyeing the scars scattered about the other man’s chest and arms, where he’d clearly been whipped.
One particularly gruesome scar extended from the corner of his lips to mid-cheek.
A golden band glinted across his throat, and it was then Zevander grew aware of the one at his own throat.
He pressed his hand there, his mind refusing to entertain the memories of the day before, when someone must’ve fastened it on him.
“I’m Theron,” the blond said, popping an olive into his mouth.
Instead of responding, Zevander bit into one of the small chunks of venison on his plate, the delicious, savory flavor exploding across his tongue.
For a split-second, he thought of his friends, starting their grueling workday with a bowl of slop, but those thoughts quickly dissolved with the flare of pain at his thigh and the memory of what had been done to him.
He’d have given away his entire plate of food to return to the mines.
“You’re Lunasier.” It wasn’t a question, and Zevander didn’t like the way the man stared at his thighs.
When he reached for one of the wrapped wounds, Zevander batted his hand away, glaring at him like an animal ready to bite.
Theron gave an unbothered smile. “I was just checking your injuries. I’m the one who stitched your wound. ”
He hadn’t even realized his wound had needed stitching.
Instead of prodding, Theron settled on the pillows, resting his elbows on his bent knees. “She views your defiance as a game. So long as you refuse her, she’ll continue to torment you. Do as she says, and you’ll gain her favor.”
“What makes you think I aspire to be her favored whore?”
His cheek twitched, as if he took the question personally. “You will find acquiescence is far better than her punishments.”
“I’d suffer a thousand lashes before I’d ever bow to her whims.”
“You’d prefer to return to the mines?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head and sighed. “There are advantages to being here. Comforts. When was the last time you had fresh venison in the mines? Freshly-baked bread, instead of the stale and moldy discarded scraps. Pillows, instead of rough concrete. Hot water for baths. You’re still a slave, whether you’re here, or in the mines. ”
“I didn’t ask for your opinions of what I am.”
“And I mean no insult. I’m the one who mends the wounds of those that defy her orders. I’d simply like to avoid having to sew together your ravaged flesh.”
“Sorry to disappoint. There will be plenty more wounds. Thanks for the food, but leave me alone.”
His lips thinned. “I’m not permitted to leave you alone. In the event you take your life.”
“Then, I’m shackled to you, as well. Fucking brilliant.”
“Could be worse. I could be an orgoth.” Theron snorted a laugh, and while Zevander might’ve also laughed at that, he couldn’t summon so much as a twitch of his lips—the rage inside him was too thick.
“If you insist on challenging her every word, at least let me offer something.
From his pocket, he pulled a tiny ampoule of purple liquid that he held up for Zevander.
Reluctantly Zevander let him deposit it into his palm.
“It’s a powerful elixir. Eliminates the pain and heals. Spill it into your wounds and you’ll be floating on a dream.”
Zevander sneered. “Is that how she commands you to do as she wants?”
“Your cock will be useless. Humiliating for her. And in time, she may even grow bored of you.”
“Do you speak from experience?”
Clearing his throat, he turned away. “It took a while to grasp, but yes. She’s found other uses for me.”
“Mending wounds.”
“Don’t imagine that anyone here enjoys their punishments or sleeps so soundly at night that they can’t recall the horrors of what she’s done to them.
Most die within the first month. Either self-inflicted, or like you, they refuse to break.
Those of us who remain must learn how to bend.
How to choose our grief. The weight of a chain grows heavier with time. ”
Zevander ground his teeth. “I will not break, nor bend to anyone.”
Lips pressed together, Theron pushed to his feet, lingering a moment longer. “ Mor samanet ,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
“It’s a Solassion phrase often spoken before heading into battle. It means death awaits . I pray you survive, my friend.”