Page 77 of Vasmora

“Where is she?” he demanded. “The mortal.”

The soldier raised a trembling finger to his left.

The soft tickle of a much smaller scorpion pattered across the back of Zevander’s hand, and he half-smiled at the way the guard’s eyes tracked its movement. As the tiny creature slipped between Zevander’s palm and the soldier’s mouth, Zevander backed away, just catching sight of its tail as it scampered down his throat.

Hands gripping his neck, the guard choked as the arachnid made its way into his body, where it would inevitably liquefy his organs.

When the soldier finally dropped to his knees, Zevander called back the much bigger scorpion and strode in the direction he’d been pointed, leaving a wake of dead bodies. He peered into each cell, and despite his smooth, intentional steps, his heart pounded in his throat.

Would he find her alive? Mutilated?

Jaw clenched, he pushed those thoughts away and felt a tickle at the back of his hand, bringing his steps to a halt. The small scorpion he’d left behind had caught up to him, its black carapace glistening wet with the guard’s blood as it settled on the back of his palm as a tattoo.

He kept on, making his way toward the end of the corridor, until he came upon a cell he knew all too well.

More tomb than prison. No light. No sound.

He’d faced death and slit throats, but nothing quickened his pulse like the thought of finding her trapped within those suffocating walls.

Once again, he summoned his scorpion and watched as the beast rammed itself into the iron.

Once. Twice.

The thick surface crumpled inward with every blow, until it blew off its hinges, striking the ground on a cloud of dust. Zevander stepped into the cell that was lit only by the torches from the corridor at his back and scanned the surroundings. One shift to the side and a beam of light cut through the dark.

A tight fist clamped around his chest.

The ground slammed into his knees, muscles locked and shaking.

She sat huddled in the shadows, eyes closed, hands covering her ears as she rocked back and forth. Her black, frayed dress clung to a slightly thinner frame, her skin pale and bruised, covered in dirt, grime and blood.

But she was alive.

A body lay nearby, and Zevander glanced only long enough to assess it wasn’t a threat.

He’d come for her. Only her.

“I will not obey. I will not beg for mercy,” she muttered to herself, not bothering to look at him. A hint of recognition churned in those words, and as Zevander looked around, his skin prickled with old memories.

The cold crypt that had seen horrors inflicted on his body and mind.

And it’d become her prison.

“Maevyth,” he choked out. In spite of the urge to smash the walls, he forced calm into his voice and pushed to his feet. Slow, careful steps closed the distance between them, the need to keep from startling her overriding his compulsion to sweep her up.

She didn’t seem to hear him, but continued to rock back and forth, quietly whispering the words he’d once carved into the floor of the cell.

Up close, he could see the damage she’d suffered. The bruises that marked tight restraints and ligatures, blood dried around cuts across her arms, bones protruding through a malnourished body. A fresh cut glistened from the bottom of her nose, across her lips, to her chin. All deliberate. Malicious. Her finger, swollen and bruised, had been broken, maybe crushed, with the way her nail had split.

The sight of her injuries roused memories from the darkest corners of his mind and Zevander had to look away or risk ramming his fist into concrete.

As an assassin, he’d seen many appalling things. Slaves kept in abhorrent conditions. Children captured by much older men. He’d been trained to stay focused. Bury his shock and anger. Show no reaction. But seeing her, his mate, so fragile and abused, nearly broke him. Stirred a primal sort of violence.

An urge to crack bones and tear flesh with his bare hands.

Rolling his shoulders back, he pushed those thoughts aside, hands flexing and unflexing at his thighs. “Open your eyes, A’miszhla. I’m here.” Zevander reached out for her, but when her eyes shot open, she shrank away, tucking herself close to the wall as if he were her tormentor.

Through the swollen red of too many tears, a sadness burned in her gaze, and she slowly shook her head. “Not real. You’re not real. She’s tricking me again.”