Page 15 of Taken By The Dark Three
I tap a finger to my lips. “Not a puppet. A partner, of sorts. Your magic is too wild for these soldiers to handle. I can help refine it. And in return, you’d give me the satisfaction of feeling your mind yield to my psionic mastery.”
She stares, caught between revulsion and fascination. Silence stretches, thick with possibility. At last, she sneers. “You’re insane if you think I’d trust you.”
I chuckle softly. “Trust is overrated. We can thrive on tension, can we not?”
She closes her eyes briefly, as though steadying herself. My senses detect the swirl of her purna aura rising again, subtle but strong. She tries to push me back, even if I’m not currently invading. I let her sense my presence, reminding her I’m always here, just at the threshold of her mind.
She opens her eyes, fixing me with a calm that belies her shackled state. “And if I refuse your offer? If I’d rather fight you every step of the way?”
I lean forward in the chair, resting my elbows on my thighs. “Then I’ll indulge in the thrill of each battle. I’ll up the stakes until one of us breaks. You might prefer that. Our games would be… intense.”
Her nostrils flare, though a flicker of excitement sparks in her gaze before she buries it. “You truly are vile.”
“Perhaps,” I concede. “But at least I’m honest about it.” I rise from the chair, approaching her once more. I lift my hand to the band around her head, letting a charge of energy drift across the glyphs. She goes rigid, bracing for an intrusion. I smirk and let the charge fizzle away. “Not yet. I want you somewhat rested for the next real push.”
She exhales slowly, relief warring with frustration. “You enjoy dragging this out.”
“Immensely,” I admit. “Instant victory is boring. Mastery is sweeter when earned piece by piece.”
Her eyes flick to the side, scanning the instruments on the table. A coil of chain etched with psionic runes, a row of crystal vials containing glowing liquids, the iron rod that amplifies mental subjugation. She takes it in, a swirl of recognition and loathing. I sense her silent vow to never yield to them, and a surge of respect coils in my chest. She’s formidable, and I relish it.
A subtle shift in the air warns me that someone stands at the suite’s threshold. I turn, noticing the door cracked open. A soldier from the main hall peeks inside, nervous. “M-my lord, Commander Vaelith requests you in the war chambers. He says it’s urgent.”
I click my tongue in annoyance. Vaelith. Always interfering. I glance at Selene, half wishing to send the soldier away, but politics demand I show. “Tell him I’ll join him shortly,” I reply. The soldier bows and disappears.
Turning back to Selene, I hold her gaze. “It seems our conversation must pause. But don’t worry,” I add, stepping closer until we’re nearly chest to chest. She can’t retreat, pinned as she is by those chains. “I’ll be returning soon. Perhaps next time, I’ll delve deeper into that delicious mind of yours. If you behave, I might spare you some suffering.”
She scoffs. “I’d sooner lick a viper’s fangs.”
My lips curve. I lift her chin with the tip of my finger, letting the warmth of her breath ghost over my skin. “I welcome the challenge. You’ll find me quite resourceful.”
A swirl of tension flares between us, hot enough to tighten my chest. Her pupils dilate as if she’s torn between slapping me and something far more reckless. I sense the raw animositythrobbing in her aura, but it’s tinged with a strange fascination neither of us can deny. The friction is heady, even addictive.
I release her chin and snap my fingers. The metal band around her head releases a spark, then settles back into place without its psionic amplifiers engaged. She breathes more freely, as though a weight has lessened.
She narrows her eyes. “I’ll tear that band off someday. Then we’ll see how brave you are when you can’t poke inside my thoughts.”
A thrill rips through me at her venomous vow. “I anticipate the attempt. In fact, I almost crave it. But until that day—” I let my gaze roam over her bound form, noting every tense muscle and the flush of her cheeks. “You remain in my keeping.”
She doesn’t respond, only holds my stare with a silent promise of retribution. I laugh under my breath, turning away. As I stride to the door, the sound of her heartbeat echoes in my mind—fast, furious, and so very alive. I can’t resist a final glance over my shoulder. She still stands tall, arms raised by the cuffs, hair tumbling over her shoulders like dark silk. My mouth runs dry at the sight of her stubborn pride. Exquisite is the only word that comes to mind.
With a swift motion, I exit, instructing the guards to ensure no harm befalls her in my absence. They nod, perplexed, but do as they’re told. The corridor outside the suite feels too cold, too drab, after the charged warmth of that encounter. My pulse races as I head toward the war chambers, forcing my expression into a mask of composure. Vaelith likely wants to discuss troop deployments or the Red Purna’s rumored infiltration.
My mind, however, remains fixated on the purna behind that locked door, the woman who refused to cower and met my psionic advances with scorching defiance. The tips of my mouth lift, unbidden. She might despise me, but that doesn’t diminish the undeniable spark I tasted.
Let the rest of Orthani court their petty ambitions. Let Commander Vaelith cling to his militaristic codes. Let the Red Purna plot in shadows. I’ve found something infinitely more enthralling: a mind as sharp and unyielding as my own. She might not realize it yet, but we’re destined to clash in spectacular ways. And I intend to savor every moment until one of us finally yields.
It won’t be me, of course. After all, I’m Zareth Velcorin, psionic master of House Velcorin. I’ve broken countless spirits, twisted countless minds. Yet none have set my blood on fire like Selene. So I’ll watch her, corner her, slip under her skin until the day she kneels or devours me whole.
It’s a worthy game. And I do so enjoy my games.
5
SELENE
At dawn, I wake to a dull ache radiating along my arms and a faint taste of iron on my tongue. My new accommodations are no better than the cell I left behind. I’m in a cramped chamber that used to be a storage space, from the looks of the mismatched shelves lining the walls. Unlike Zareth’s polished suite of twisted psionic gadgets, this place is more makeshift: a thin pallet on cold flagstones, a single slit of a window set too high to see the sky, and a battered metal door with a sliding panel at face height. No direct sunlight greets me—only the pale glow of Orthani’s eternal gloom.
I push myself upright, rotating stiff shoulders. My wrists carry faint bruises from shackles. My ankles ache from the nights spent in painful restraints. They didn’t chain me again after Zareth’s session, but the memory of those glyph-etched shackles lingers. My magic feels smothered beneath the weight of this fortress. I can smell the latent wards in the mortar—dark elf enchantments meant to suppress arcane resonance.
