Page 64 of Tempest

Ardyn

Put the girl over there.

Too loose. You need to tie her up tighter.

No, not like that. Grab her. Harder. There you go.

Don’t cop a feel—focus on restraining her and covering her mouth! Then you can grope her all you want.

The rotting, dank scent of mildew hits me first. A sharper, metallic smell comes next, and the ancestral part of me recognizes it as the lingering stains of old blood.

With a sharp gasp, I jerk my head up. Unable to see. My lashes scrape across the fabric as I regain my senses and blink, blink, blink.

“Hey, little girl. You’re awake.”

The guttural voice slithers into my left ear. I snap my head toward it.

“You might be a little groggy. Here. Drink this.”

Something wet hits my lips, and I recoil. Spit it out.

The voice tsks. “Bad girl. You should do as I say. Otherwise, you’ll be punished.”

Do as we say, little girl, and you won’t get hurt.

“I … who are you?” my voice is brittle and light compared to his.

“Don’t you recognize me, sweetheart?”

A sickening shiver runs down my spine, sinking into my stomach and roiling what remains of my dinner. “I don’t know you.”

“You do. We found you,” he sing-songs.

A sharp sting of dread clears the nausea. “We?”

“Me and two of my friends. You remember us, don’t you? Although, you were younger then. More impressionable. More malleable.”

There’s a scrape of feet against the floor, like someone is uncrossing their legs. Wood creaks. Something flicks. A lighter, maybe? A match?

Fire.

“What do you w-want with me?” My tone takes on the edge of panic. It’s only through my focused breaths of in, out, in, out that I’m able to maintain control.

“Our ransom wasn’t enough last time.”

“No,” I whisper. “You were caught. You’re not to come near my family or me ever again…”

“Hmm. We didn’t get the memo. Feel this.”

The same man—the only man—who’s been talking to me (where are the others?) stalks forward with heavy footfalls. My blinks turn rapid, though I can’t see a thing. Blindfolded.

The footsteps stride behind me, to where my wrists are bound around the chair back I’m seated on. Softness brushes the tips of my fingers, and at first, I curl them inward. Away.

“Come on, don’t you want to pet her?”

Her?”

The soft downiness presses harder into my tied hands until I register the sticky wetness. I hiss in a breath.

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