Page 8 of Scourged

She felt him at her back. She would always feel connected to him, as much as she might despise it. His presence wrapped around her, choking out her hope.

The whip uncoiling was like the sound of a million broken hearts whispering through the stars.

The first strike was the worst.

Her skin split and sundered, blazing agony ripping through her body and piercing straight to her soul, where she still hid against that wall of onyx and gold adamant. She bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood. But she did not cry out.

The second strike had her digging her fingers into the still-bleeding wound on her arm, her ears sharpening onto the sound of dripping blood on black marble floors.

The third and fourth strikes dropped her to all fours, tugging her out of the guards’ grip, panting heavily, the sound of more raucous calls filling her ears, but even as she was hauled back up, she did not cry out.

The fifth and sixth were the easiest. Her back was now numb. She focused only on the pool of blood dripping under her right hand, on the way the ruby liquid vanished against the black stone.

But she did not cry out.

When the seventh and final blow came, it hit directly over a previous strike.

That was when a sound finally broke past her lips, when she could no longer swallow the pain. When the agony dragged her up, kicking and screaming, from where she’d hidden herself in the corners of her mind.

It was a barely audible whisper, a faint brush of air through clenched teeth, but she heard it.

She knew Andrian heard it, too. Her body trembled, and she panted, but a fresh wave of fear forced her to go rigid, muscles pulling against ruined flesh. Waiting for him to react, for her punishment to come.

But … it never did. He remained motionless behind her, dropping the whip to the floor with a sickening, wet thump.

“Seven!” the crowd cheered, ruthless laughs echoing around the room.

Shawth clapped his hands with merry excitement. Laurent was full of calculating cruelness, eyes narrowed first on Mariah before shifting over her shoulder, to his son.

Mariah met their glares with the very last dregs of her hate, holding herself together with a desperation wrought only from utter hopelessness.

“Andrian,” Laurent said, icy voice strong above the din of the crowd. “Take our little friend back to her … room. Make sure she knows to think long about her decision today and how much easier things could be for her if she simply obliged our request.”

Hands grabbed Mariah’s arms—not the hands of the guards, but familiar hands, calloused hands, wickedly gentle hands—and pulled her to her feet.

Andrian dragged Mariah back through the throne room, pulling her towards one of the dark hallways. He tugged her down the steep staircase, her body involuntarily sagging against his as her consciousness dipped and wavered. His skin felt too hot against hers, too grating, too poisoned, but she was too weak to pull away. He was emotionless, a stranger who half-carried her through the dark, winding hallways.

The further they moved, the more her vision spotted. She bled excessively, her life draining from her starved and weakened body through the wounds on her back. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, breathing heavy and labored.

Somewhere in her haze, she let herself be pushed against the cool stone wall. She latched onto its icy stability with all her strength, fighting against her mind to keep from sliding down to the ground. Andrian left her there, and she focused her entire being on pulling air into her lungs and strength into her shaking legs.

Something was thrust into her face, something that felt like coarse cloth.

“Put this on.” Andrian’s voice was flat, mechanical.

Somehow, somewhat dazedly, Mariah remembered her torso was still bare, the chill stone of the wall a salve against the burning of her skin.

With a tremor that wracked through her damaged body, Mariah heaved off the wall, grasping the linen tunic Andrian offered her in a shaking, bloody hand. Her vision again peppered, fighting against the rising tide of exhaustion and pain. She slowly pushed her hands into the tunic, snaking them out through the sleeves.

Andrian watched her with that empty look. She released a hiss as the tunic fell around her ruined flesh. It was thin, barely covering her, and it immediately clung to her back where her wounds had so far failed to clot. The foreign touch washed a renewed bout of nauseating agony across her skin.

She rocked for a moment, panting.

Before she was ready, Andrian resumed his grip on her arm and dragged her the rest of the way to her cold, dark, disgusting cell. He unlocked the door with a small skeleton key he pulled from his pocket before roughly pushing her back into captivity.

Mariah caught herself against her soiled mattress, hair falling around her face. Her cell door clicked closed behind her, the lock sliding into place with a quietsnick. Only then did she lift her head, using the last dredges of her strength to meet his stare.

She remembered a time, not long ago, when that stare had looked at her with so much love. Enough that would have stopped hearts and ended worlds.

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