Page 26 of The Curse of Ophelia

And above that, pulsing to capture my attention, was the North Star. I watched it as it twisted and gleamed before my eyes, alive under my stare. Somewhere out there, my North Star was waiting to come back to me. I was sure of it.

I could almost feel Malakai’s strong arms wrapping around my waist at the thought, a warm band of hope consuming me. I remembered the gentle brush of his lips over my tattoo each time we were together, like it was the most precious piece of either of us.

“I’m going to become a Mystique Warrior, and I am going to find you. If this Curse kills me, I will right the wrongs the universe has inflicted upon us first,” I whispered my promise to the stars.

As if he heard me, a cool whisper of air tickled my neck, a simple exhale of a lover standing at your back.

I leaned against the window as a plan began to take shape in my mind.

Chapter Eleven

Malakai

Calloused hands shoved me through the stone archway, digging into my bare skin and slamming my body to the floor. I groaned internally as my shoulder caught my weight. Bone crunched painfully against cool rock, but I stayed silent. They must have weakened me somehow to be capable of forcing me to the ground so easily.

The fucking whiskey…

They had graciously pushed a bottle of something strong through the door of my cell late last night. One dizzying sip was all I took, but it was enough if laced with the right drug. I was usually more cautious than that, learning early on in captivity to be wary of beverages handed to me. I cursed myself for my sloppy behavior, but last night was the eve of—

No, I couldn’t think of that now. I needed whatever strength they hadn’t robbed in order to maintain a sliver of my Spirit-damned dignity.

A metal gate slammed shut, the frame rattling. Heavy boots stalked across the stone floor, circling me and moving to the front of the room. I sensed that there were two sets of them.

I relied only on my hearing, scent, and touch, the thick black blindfold stealing my sight. Still, I knew where we were. I didn’t need to see the sheen glistening on the walls to know that it was there from our last session. Damp with the mixture of sweat and blood that clung to the air, floor, and walls. Stuck to my skin.

My sweat. My blood. But not my tears. No, I would not allow them that satisfaction.

I didn’t need to see the heavy chains hanging from the center of the ceiling—or the matched sets on the walls—to know they were there, providing a variety of ways to bend, restrain, and destroy a captive. Whatever cruel means entered the guards’ minds.

I was theirs to torment, for their entertainment, because they knew I wouldn’t fight back. I couldn’t. Not if the promises were to be upheld.

An iron scent penetrated the air, but that was usual. I had grown accustomed to the scent of my own blood over these two years of torture. They liked to extract it in a number of brutal, creative ways.

Afterward, they always left the mess on my torn skin as a reminder of their sport.

The chains rattled—the haunting clatter that tore me from sleep each night, gasping for breath. I showed none of that fear as I was dragged to my feet. They may own me, but I would not bare my soul.

One heavy cuff closed around each wrist and ankle, and the guard pulled the ends of the chains tight. My arms stretched outward, pointing toward the walls, and my blindfold fell to the floor. This was their favorite position in which to restrain me. The irony of my body resembling the tattoo inked on my chest was a cruel joke to them.

A reminder of the path that led me here, as if I would otherwise forget. Some days I wished I could.

I locked eyes with the man standing on the dais before me as the crack of a whip whistled through the air. The chamber filled with the snap of leather on skin, but I barely registered the pain. In the two years since my imprisonment, my body had grown numb to the feeling. The torture—though it had been hard to admit at first that that was what was happening to me. It became easier to accept over time, but there were some things I still chose to ignore.

I heard rather than felt the impact of the whip, a tearing sound that radiated through my body as my flesh ripped. It wasn’t hard to break it—the wounds never had time to fully heal.

Everything around me was just noise. Nothing could hurt me anymore. Nothing physical at least, I thought as a hot trickle of blood trailed down my back.

“Again,” the guard in charge instructed from his platform, his voice even and demanding, as if nothing he saw done to me fazed him or pleased him enough.

I raised my chin to meet his icy stare. With my arms spread wide as they were, chains binding me to the walls, I should have felt vulnerable. That was his hope. But I held his eyes as I heard the whip make contact again. The blood thickened, trailing under my shorts and down the back of my legs.

They never tortured me enough to kill me, though sometimes I wished they had. But it was impossible to kill me here; my body healed too quickly. They knew that I would wake each day with the fresh pink scars of mending injuries, the blood crusted onto my skin.

They knew that. The ones responsible for this.

“One more,” the guard directed his fellow holding the whip.

“Only three today?” I spat the words, my voice croaking and hoarse from disuse. Those first weeks, I had screamed through the torture. Each blow, hot iron, and carving drew a cry from deep within me that shook the room. Since those weeks, my voice had barely been used beyond my meager taunts during these sessions.

---