Page 56 of Devoured
“I know I do.”The certainty in his voice made my skin crawl.
I let out a bitter laugh. It scraped my throat raw. “We’ll see about that.”
He moved to a shelf and retrieved a rusted tin, peeling it open with surprising care. Inside was meat—gray and slick, gleaming with its own juices. Army rations? Or something older?
He held it out to me.
I turned away, bile rising.
A low sound rumbled in his chest—not quite a growl. Something deeper. Older. “Eat,”he said, and there was no room left for argument.
I took the tin with shaking hands and forced myself to swallow. The meat was salty, tough—but it filled an emptiness I hadn’t known was there. Water followed, clearing the metallic taste from my mouth. I drank slowly, feeling the trembling in my hands begin to fade.
Then, without warning, he reached for what remained of my torn clothing—and simply ripped it away. The last scraps that had clung to my body were gone. I was naked. Fully exposed on the cold stone.
He soaked a cloth in something that smelled of herbs and antiseptic, then began to wash me with the same care he’d shown while cauterizing my wounds.
Arms first. Then my breasts, my belly, between my legs. Not slow. Not rough. Just thorough. Like I was a weapon being cleaned after battle.
I turned my face to the wall, shame burning hotter than the cauterizing rod had. This was worse than pain. This complete exposure, this clinical intimacy, felt more invasive than anything Varnar had done.
“Why?”I breathed the question
He continued washing the insides of my thighs, the cloth warm and careful against sensitive skin. He didn’t answer immediately.
“Why not just kill me?”I pressed.
“Dirty,”he groaned, as if that explained everything.
Rage writhed inside me, desperate to escape. The casual dismissal. The way he handled me like I was just another tool to be maintained. I kicked him, driving my heel into his chest with what little strength I had left.
He didn’t budge. Might as well have kicked a mountain. He just caught my ankle in one massive hand and pulled me back toward him.
My legs spread involuntarily as I slid across the stone, breath catching in my throat. He stepped between them, his presence filling the space like heat from an opened furnace.
He knelt slowly, never breaking that burning gaze from behind his mask. The heat between us crackled—dense, electric, charged with something ancient and unspeakable. His hands settled on my thighs—vast, callused things—and pried me open without struggle. My breath hitched.
My nipples ached, tight and flushed. The air stung where it touched them. I bit my lip, hard—anything to keep my focus. But my eyes locked on the movement of his hands as they bracketed my hips. I should’ve screamed. I should’ve fought. But my body was ahead of me, rising, tilting toward him.
He didn’t speak. Just lowered his head and pressed one thick finger into me—slow and deep.
My lips parted on a gasp. He watched the whole time. Watched me stretch around him.
Then another finger—pushing past the first, curling.
The sensation sliced through me: shock, then heat. I writhed, my heels scrabbling uselessly against the slick bone slab.
His thumb settled against my clit.
The pressure was excruciating. Gentle. Insistent. The way he circled it made my spine shudder. The pads of his fingers found a rhythm inside me, and my body betrayed every secret I’d ever tried to keep.
A low moan broke from my throat. I arched into him, panting. My hips moved without permission. My thighs clenched around his wrists. He twisted his fingers slightly—a flick of precision. My eyes rolled back. My mouth opened, but no sound came. Only breath. Only heat.
I was drenched. Burning. Every flick of his thumb against my clit sent shockwaves through me. And his fingers—oh god, his fingers—worked with terrifying grace, stroking places no one had ever touched. Not like this.
I gripped the slab with both hands, nails scraping bone. The pressure built—unbearable, exquisite. My moans turned to sobs. My skin felt too tight. My heartbeat thundered in my ears.
When the climax hit, it tore through me like wildfire consuming everything in its path. The sound that escaped my throat wasn’t human. It was something primal. Desperate. My thighs clamped around his hand. My nails scraped the stone. And for a moment that stretched into eternity, I forgot everything except the pleasure that shattered me completely.
