Page 13 of Curses and Cures

Instead, I stare him down, refusing to let either man see how much they intimidate me. Growing up with The Masks as friends, the Deana-dhe as my childhood enemies, and my father as a tyrant, has helped toughen me up. Weakness isn’t an option. Fear is better left to the early hours of the morning where despair lives.

“We’ll see how long that lasts,” Half-skull says, licking his lips as he studies me. “Soren is tired of his current bitch. I’m pretty sure you’ll be next on his list to break.”

I grit my teeth.Over my dead body.

“Careful now, witch, a look like that can get you stripped and served as a delicious meal for the entire Brotherhood to share on celebration night,” Quarter-skull adds, stepping closer and running his calloused fingers over my cheek to intimidate me. “Insolence turns us on. There’s nothing more entertaining than breaking a woman. Keep this up and see what happens.”

I force myself to meet his gaze, allowing every ounce of disgust to seep into my eyes, vowing to myself that I will never cower to these monsters, no matter what they threaten me with.

He laughs, lust flaring in his eyes. “Oh, I can’t fucking wait.”

“We should go,” Half-skull interjects, his thick fingers wrapping around my upper arm in a bruising grip. “We’ve kept Soren waiting long enough.”

Quarter-skull steps backwards, his eyes narrowing in displeasure as he cuts a look to his superior. “Damon said we had some new bitches brought in yesterday.”

“That’s right. They’re being prepared for celebration night,” Half-Skull confirms. “Off-limits too.”

“Fuck, I could’ve used some downtime with a new piece of ass,” Quarter-skull complains, swiping a tattooed hand over his shorn head.

“The brunette in cell three has had it easy for a few days. Why don’t you go pay her a visit and ease some of the stress?” Half-skull suggests with a sinister smirk as he yanks me along the hallway, dragging me away from one monster, only to be given to another.

As soon as we enter Soren’s private apartment, Half-skull throws me down onto the cold stone floor, my knees hitting the tiles with a crack. Pain ricochets up my thighs and lower back, and a tiny growl rips from my lips. I swallow the curse words, not willing to earn a beating for the honour of hearing my voice.

“She’s here, sir,” Half-skull says, stepping into my peripheral vision as I push up from the floor to a kneeling position, refusing to remain bowing and scraping like a beaten dog.

It’s not the first time I’ve been inside Soren’s apartment, but every time I’m forced to enter, I’m shocked by the human bones that line the walls in some kind of macabre art display. I can’t even bear to think of how they came to be here, and there’s no way to be certain without examining the pelvic bones more closely, but my gut tells me these are the remains of his past slaves. All women. All victims of his abuse.

Footsteps approaching from a corridor off the central room alert me to Soren’s arrival. He appears before me, his naked body draped in a sheer black robe. It’s hard to tell his age given he’s covered head to toe tattoos, but I would think he was in his mid-forties. He has an air of self-assurance that comes with age, as well as arrogance and cruelty.

“Leave,” Soren says, barely acknowledging Half-skull as he stops in front of me.

Even his dick is blackened from ink, disappearing into the stark white of his skeletal hip bones. Most people would find him terrifying, and whilst I am not immune to his countenance, I don’t see a monstrous creature. I see a human man disguising himself with fakery.

I see a man who can bleed.

And hewillbleed.

“Is there anything else you need, sir?” Half-skull asks.

“Check on Damon and our new arrivals. Make sure they’re kept separate from the others. Those who aren’t suitable for our buyer will be given to the men at our night of celebration. They must not be tainted before then. Anyone caught sniffing around will be dealt with by me personally.”

“Of course,” Half-skull replies before turning on his heels and leaving the room.

Silence descends as Soren observes me. He’s thoughtful, quiet, the oppressive arrogance and aggression he usually arms himself with a little muted today.

“Follow me,” he eventually demands, twisting on his feet and striding back the way he entered the room.

Without hesitation, I do as he asks. I learned early on that patience is not a concept Soren understands, and disobedience is akin to petrol thrown into a naked flame. For now, I will follow his orders until the time comes when I no longer have to. Survival is my priority until I can have my revenge. When we reach a door at the end of the hallway, he unlocks it and pushes it open, gesturing for me to enter.

The room’s floor is cool and smooth with polished ceramic tiles, and the walls are painted a deep umber. It’s richly decorated with decadent velvet furniture and a huge wooden, four-poster bed enclosed by thick curtains. When I imagined Soren’s most inner lair, this was not it.

Motioning for me to sit on a navy winged-back chair in the far corner of the room, he takes a seat opposite. On the low walnut coffee table between us is a carafe filled with orange juice, the sweet, tangy scent making my mouth water.

“Drink,” Soren says as he pours us both a glass and slides it across the table towards me.

I take it cautiously, not wanting to let my guard down. For all I know, he’s laced it with something to weaken me, make me vulnerable.

He narrows his eyes at me when I don’t follow his orders. “You think I’ve poisoned it?”

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