Page 207 of The Doll and The Domination

Gerta nods with fierce determination, and they leave to go find him.

The line moves faster than I’m prepared for. The inmates don’t walk the plank one at a time, they follow each other across like a line of ants. Warrose’s feet move forward steadily, if I didn’t see him drink from those hoses, I might not be able to tell he’s drunk.

“Close your eyes, baby girl,” Warrose breathes against my cheek.

I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling my stomach dip as I can tell we’ve now stepped onto the plank.

“It’ll be over soon,” he says gruffly.

“Is it hot?” I ask.

“The metal is warming up. But it’s not burning my feet.”

Thank God.

From what I can tell, Warrose walks in a straight line. Steady. Composed. With the graceful agility of a cat. My muscles loosen their grip, and I soften my hold around his neck. Maybe this isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Maybe

We stumble forward, and Warrose curses, hugging me to his chest to keep balance.

“Hey!” he grunts.

The plank shakes underneath us. The prisoners bump into each other as they grow frantic and drunk. A panic breaks out among those that are crossing this well of fire. Shoving. Screaming. The melting sounds of bodies flopping into the vat of lava. We’re suddenly jerked back and forth, wobbling side to side as Warrose fights to keep us upright.

“Don’t you dare open those eyes,” he growls in my ear.

“I won’t!”

But it’s too tempting. I have to know what’s going on. Not just to satisfy my creeping curiosity, but to quell the motion sickness swirling in my gut. If I have to start heaving, that will definitely wreck his focus, throwing us off balance.

I peek out of one eye, watching what takes place over his shoulder.

Inmates are being poked and stabbed with sticks from surrounding sentinels and soldiers climbing on the stage to be a part of this bizarre and demented circus.

An animalistic noise rumbles from Warrose’s throat as he’s stabbed in the side with a dull spear. I gasp as a small trickle of blood slides down his hip.

“Warrose!”

“I’m okay.”

Something hooks and latches onto my hair, dragging us down to the right. I yelp at the sting that rakes across my scalp. A female inmate with crows feet surrounding her frightened, beady eyes uses my head to keep herself upright.

“Let go!” I scream.

Warrose headbutts the woman, a crack through the air between us, and she tumbles off the metal strip. I groan against his shoulder.

I hear Dessin shout something from the end of the plank behind us. Warrose nods, taking a deep breath.

“It’s going to feel crazy for a minute, but I promise I won’t drop us. But Dessin’s right, I need to clear the path.” He sounds confident and ultimately fearless in what he’s about to do. I have no room to question it. His calmness is like a steel shelter in a storm. Unbreachable.

“Okay.”

With one arm, Warrose yanks a spear from a sentinel, tugging so hard the glorified guard is thrown into the flames with a high-pitched shriek. He uses the spear to spin around in a circle, batting inmates away from us and not stopping even though some fall to their deaths. He’s doing what he must to get me out of this. To protect us both.

Warrose moves like a tiger, bulky in size, but attacks with the flow of a snake. His thick legs kick outward to defend us from the mob of fumbling bodies. And once he gives himself enough room, he throws the spear back to Dessin, hissing as a few wild flames stroke his ankles. A few strides across the remaining distance, and we’re on the other side of the stage. Panting. Grumbling curse words.

“You’re hurt,” I whine.

I’m sorry I couldn’t walk this plank by myself. I’m sorry you’re hurt because of me. I’m sorry I’ve been so useless to everyone this entire time. Why did this have to happen to me? Why, Warrose?

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