Page 21 of Scavenger's Oath
His strong jawline was tense like a snake coiled back and ready to strike. And those fiery hazel eyes, intense and wild.
Goosebumps break out over my flesh at the memory of the chiselled god who crouched before me and made me feel things I shouldn’t have.
The way his fingers ignited my senses, trailing over my body like a lover. The reaction of my body had me questioning everything.
It shouldn’t have felt that good. And he shouldn’t look that good.
He was younger than I expected too. Mid-twenties, maybe. Sun-kissed hair in messy spikes, as if he cut it with a knife—having no business looking that perfect six years after the worldessentially ended.
It's not fair that both of them are ridiculously hot. Statistically, the third one has to be hideous.
I haven’t seen the Devil since Death dragged me in here. He’s the only one I haven’t seen unmasked now. And maybe that’s a good thing. Because if he’s beautiful too, I don’t know what I’ll do.
No. That’s stupid. What am I thinking?
I can’t trust these guys. Who knows what sick shit they’re into… I heard the stories of groups who feed you before you become the feast. Who make you trust them just enough to relax before the real horror begins.
But my senses are confused, terror and desire mingled in an unnatural concoction.
Even now, fear coils tighter in my stomach as I sit back down on the cold concrete floor of the cell and refocus on the can of fruit—another one of his taunts.
Turning it over in my hands for the hundredth time, inspecting the rim, the lid, anything for a weakness.
The sun-faded label shows a picture of a peach, barely recognisable and peeling.
It might have been a kind gesture if he’d actually opened it for me.
Trying the edge of the bars again, I drag the lip of the can along the corroded metal.
No luck.
Only a scratch on the surface and another throb in my palm. I hiss under my breath and wipe the smear of rust on my shorts.
The sun has moved again, lower now. The stifling heat of high noon is quickly giving way to the cool of the late afternoon.
Slumped in the corner of the cell, I sit with myknees to my chest, as the iron bars slice the afternoon light into angled shadows.
There's been nothing but silence since that argument, and anxious anticipation is beginning to combine with the hunger in my stomach.
Footsteps echo in the hallway and my heart seizes. Every muscle tensing as I brace.
They’re measured. Careful. Not the threatening stomps of Death.
Zane.
I hold perfectly still as the door to the holding room opens slowly, his shadow stretching into the room. He slips inside, the door clicking shut quietly behind him. A bowl in his hand.
“Thought you might be hungry,” he says, cautiously taking another step toward me.
He's still in his cargo pants and combat boots from this morning, but now an olive-green T-shirt pulls tight over his muscles, hiding most of his scars.
The closer he gets, the larger he appears. His powerful frame and imposing height is a reminder of just how trapped and at their mercy I truly am.
Backing up to the concrete wall behind me, he falters and slows his steps even more.
“It's ok. I'll move slow,” he says, raising a hand slightly and nodding gently, causing the black strands of hair over his brow to sway. “I don't want to frighten you.”
His green eyes hold the most tender expression, as if it's a crime against nature to scare me. I almost want to believe it.
