Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 152666 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 763(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 509(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152666 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 763(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 509(@300wpm)
“She didn’t even seem to notice it.” Sylvester licked his lips in trepidation, gaze rooted to my hand.
“I cut myself all the time. Get as many beatings as I have, and you don’t sweat the small stuff,” I joked. Neither of the men cracked a smile. “No, but seriously, I barely feel it. Honestly. It doesn’t even hurt. My pain tolerance is pretty extreme.”
Weston reached for me, his movements so fast I thought he’d snatch at my wrist. Instead, his fingers wrapped around me delicately and he stepped closer, looking down on the cut. Bright crimson seeped over the edge of my pointer finger, dripping onto the work station.
“It won’t kill me,” I said, my words having zero effect on these guys. “Weston, honestly—“
I cut myself off with a moan as he sucked my finger into his mouth. His eyes weren’t on fire, though—they were concerned.
“Fuck, even your blood tastes good,” he muttered a moment later as he stepped forward and reached, grabbing Sylvester’s shirt and ripping it off his body. “Make a couple strips from that,” he ordered Sylvester.
He again sucked away the blood on my finger before wrapping it tightly in one of the proffered strips.
“You didn’t need to ruin his shirt,” I whined, watching him tie off the fabric. “You guys are really overreacting here.”
“You didn’t feel that cut?” Weston demanded, in my space, his anger raw and wild.
I gulped. “No, honestly. I really do cut myself all the time.” I showed him my other hand. “I have the scars to show for it. Look.”
He did, turning my hand over and tracing one of the scars on my palm with his thumb. “You not feeling pain—is that because of what Granny has done to you?”
“Alexander gave me the beatings. You’ve already made it clear that you read about it in the journals.”
“This needs to be voiced in the present. You need to hear it and let it sink in. Granny ordered those beatings, right? The ones that took you to the brink?”
I knew anger swirled in my eyes as I stared at him mutely. Anguish swirled in my gut, his words poking at the brutal truth that my whole life had been a carefully constructed and maintained fabrication. I didn’t want to dissect this now. I couldn’t allow the reality of my past to disrupt my goals in the present, which were to escape, to claim my magic, and attempt to find safety in obscurity.
He nodded, knowing he was getting to me. “They beat you so often and so badly that you don’t feel pain, Aurelia.” He held up my hand. “This cut is deep. It should be throbbing. It should hurt badly. Hold onto Granny as family, fine, but beating someone within an inch of their life is not the action of someone who loves you.”
I ripped my hand away, breaking that little bit more. “What the fuck do you care? Worried I’ll spoil the goods for your dragons? That they won’t have an able body to punish?”
His jaw clenched. He didn’t respond.
“Yeah, you and your precious duty. Concerned about me as you march me toward death. That makes real sense.” I unwrapped the strip of fabric, already soaked through, and grabbed another. “Let’s not forget, my tolerance for pain enabled me to take your knot the first time,” I seethed, wrapping a “clean” strip around it. Who knew how long this shirt had been worn by a man who usually sweat over open fires. “You remember, when you were trying to punish me with it? You could help me cure this right now. Just pull out my animal and I’ll have access to faster healing.”
His eyes were the customary granite. He didn’t respond.
I issued a sardonic laugh, holding my hand out for Sylvester to tie the strip of fabric.
“Fuck off, why don’t you,” I spat at Weston. “Keep your fucking kill. I’ll eat vegetables and leftovers. Or nothing at all, it doesn’t really matter. I’ve gone without plenty of times. Doing it here or in my village makes no difference. It’s a cage all the same, just a different tyrant as my jailor.”
Pain—regret?—flashed in his eyes. He stared at me for another tense beat. It was to Sylvester he finally spoke. “Get someone to properly clean and sew up that finger.”
He strode away, parting the crowd that had gathered, everyone with bits of meat in their hands. They watched him silently, their gazes then swinging back to me, having heard all.
I didn’t care, but I needed to. In order to get out of here tonight, we had to follow the same routine we had the last few nights. I’d need to apologize to him and make it believable. He needed to drink his glass of wine as we chatted in the tent. If we didn’t stick to that routine, there was no way I’d be able to escape.