Page 30 of Taken By The Dark Three
He clenches his fists, jaw tensing. “Careful, Selene.”
I smirk. “Or what? You’ll clamp me in irons again? Enjoy your little show of control?”
His eyes flash with anger, but also hunger. In that charged moment, I sense how easily we could fall into a chaotic spiral—lips colliding, bodies straining. But he wrestles the impulse back, stepping away, breath uneven.
“Back inside,” he says, voice clipped. “We have a final briefing in half an hour, and I need you present.”
I swallow my own surge of adrenaline. “Lead the way.”
He spins, stalking off, posture rigid. I follow at a short distance, letting the swirl of frustration and excitement swirl in my gut. Another small victory: each time I rattle him, I remind him that I’m no docile recruit. If he’s wise, he’ll realize his precarious hold on me.
We pass through the corridors, returning to the war room. Officers gather for the day’s final briefing, going over revised routes and supply checks. My tampered map rests at the table’s center. I watch Vaelith pick it up, scanning the lines with a faint frown. He shakes his head as though uncertain, but nothing is obviously out of place enough to trigger alarm. My lips curl, satisfaction blooming.
The meeting drags on with mundane logistics—food inventories, scheduling patrols, reinforcing outposts. My mind drifts occasionally to Ai, locked somewhere in the fortress, used as leverage. The guilt gnaws at me, driving me to escalate my sabotage so Orthani’s grip falters. When they slip up, I’ll strike.
At last, the officers disperse. Vaelith closes the door again. It’s become routine for us to end these gatherings alone, tension thick in the war room. He’s tall, obsidian skin gleaming under the torchlight. I stand near the table, ignoring the throb of my tired limbs.
He regards me a long moment, voice quiet. “You behave better in meetings than you do when we’re alone. Why is that?”
I tilt my head. “Because I want them to see me as the calm captive, while you get the real me.” I let the final words dip into suggestion, watching the flicker of heat cross his eyes.
His voice drops an octave. “Is that your game, playing two faces?”
I shrug. “I do what I must to survive, to gain advantages. You know all about that, I suspect.”
He exhales, tension radiating from his stance. “If you remain consistent, perhaps you’ll earn more freedom.”
“And if I push too far?” I ask, stepping around the table, drawing close enough to catch the subtle scent of leather and sweat clinging to him. “What will you do?”
Something sparks between us, a live wire bridging the gap. He stiffens, as though wrestling with the urge to either claim control or back away. The air crackles with possibility. Then he breaks eye contact, turning his head.
“Enough for today,” he says, retreat in every syllable. “Go. Rest. We continue tomorrow.”
My pulse pounds, frustration mingling with satisfaction. Each encounter we share intensifies the thread between us. He fights it, I feed on it. This precarious dance is an advantage I intend to nurture, so long as it pushes him to rely on me—and eventually, to slip up.
Silently, I leave, crossing the hall to return to my assigned room. The entire estate feels like it hums with watchful eyes, but beneath that hum, I sense the seed of chaos I’ve begun sowing: guards who feel uneasy, officers who might second-guess the map, Vaelith himself uncertain how to handle me.
In my chamber, I close the door behind me. The day’s strain settles over my shoulders, yet satisfaction warms me. I sabotage their map. I sow disquiet in the ranks. And I see Vaelith in a clearer light: not just a brute, but a disciplined commander who’s as strategic as he is controlled. That means I must tread carefully—he’s no fool. But if I keep stoking the tension, maybe I can unravel that iron discipline bit by bit.
I settle on the bed, letting out a slow breath. My thoughts wander to Ai once more, and a pang of guilt returns. I vow to accelerate my manipulations. If Orthani’s next campaign goes awry, the confusion might open a path to free her. If Vaelith looks to me for solutions after the sabotage, I’ll name my price: Ai’s safety. Let Orthani’s empire strain under its own arrogance. I’ll be the thread that unravels them from within.
Tomorrow is another day of training, more subtle sabotage, more stirring the heated tension with Vaelith. My lips twitch into a small, defiant smile. This forced captivity might be the key to forging my own power, so long as I handle it with cunning. Let Orthani keep thinking I’m tamed—by the time they realize otherwise, I’ll have twisted their war machine to serve my ends.
With that thought, I extinguish the lamp, the room sinking into darkness. My body aches from the day’s battles, but my mind hums with triumph. Even caged, I hold the reins of my destiny. Orthani is a labyrinth of ambition, cruelty, and secrets—and I’ve just begun unraveling its threads. If Vaelith is a gatekeeper, I’ll slip through his defenses with every heated glance, every whispered sabotage. Soon enough, we’ll see who truly wields control in this dark empire.
10
ZARETH
My reflections in the polished glass of the Velcorin estate’s reception hall whisper reminders of my heritage: crimson hair bound at my nape, obsidian skin accentuated by golden psionic sigils that spiral down my neck. People bow or avert their eyes when they see me, proof of my family’s longstanding authority over the psionic arts. I relish the sway we hold over Orthani, an unspoken dominion that slips under the daily grind of politics and war. Yet, since Selene’s capture, that quiet certainty has cracked, replaced by a churning need I can’t fully name.
I step toward a cluster of subdued courtiers, acknowledging them with the slightest inclination of my head. They hush instantly, clearing a path for me. Most have heard the rumors: the purna survived Vaelith’s displays, the girl in the fortress is still under lock, and I, Zareth Velcorin, apparently lost the bid to shape her mind. She ended up under Vaelith’s “military use” contract, a decision that still gnaws at me.
“Lord Zareth,” a timid attendant murmurs, bowing. “Shall I summon your carriage?”
I wave him away. “No.” My voice is quiet, yet final. I have a different plan tonight—one that doesn’t involve parading about in finery. I have no interest in Orthani’s social events. My attention is fixed on her.
Though the council in their short-sightedness gave Selene to Vaelith, I’ve not relinquished my right to examine her. I’ve waited for an opportune moment to slip past his watchers, to corner her into another psionic test. My mind’s abuzz with half-formed strategies, each driven by that single, maddening reality: her mental defenses remain defiant, and I want them undone.
