5. Night Lurkers

5. Night Lurkers

Ruth

The floor is cold and sharp.It’s like trying to sleep on a bed of glass.

There is no blanket, no pillow, no silk sheets to caress my skin. I’m not lathered in body creams or hair oils. I’m not soft from my lady-doll regimen in a bathtub of milk and honey. The only familiar sensation is trying to sleep with an empty tummy.

I haven’t voiced my terror to others, but it’s there. Screaming in my bloodstream. Banging on the inside of my skull like a child throwing a tantrum. I’ve seen the inside walls of the asylum. But I was never a prisoner. Never helpless at the cruel hands of the staff. The constant urge to run and hide, stay in my cage, and avoid all signs of human life is unbearably intense.

But they can’t know that. I don’t want to be the weak link. I want to be fierce, strong, an asset to this family. But right now, as I shiver against the cold draft in the air, I feel like a massive liability. A burden they can’t get rid of.

I roll over to my side, noticing Warrose staring at the cage ceiling. No doubt annoyed at the constant eerie music of a distorted trumpet and an old-fashioned pipe organ. They play it constantly—no peaceful silence.

I sigh, closing my eyes, trying to fall asleep. But his presence is like a lightning storm. Impossible to keep your eyes closed when the sky is demanding attention above your head.

I force my eyes into small slits, doing my best to hide the fact that I’m watching him. My gaze trails over the largeness of his chest, the taut muscles along his stomach contracting as he breathes.

I wonder how much his muscles would tense if I ran my hand up his abdomen and—

Okay. No. Stop that.

He’s the chicken coward. He’s rude and crass, and I don’t like him.

But his black hair falls around his head in shiny waves. And in the strange lights, those big eyes look bluer than the midnight sea.

“My hand is securely at my side. You can stop waiting for a show,” Warrose purrs, a smirk glinting in his eyes without looking over at me.

“Pfff.” I roll my eyes, a little embarrassed that I’ve been caught staring. “No one wants tickets to that show.”

His tattooed chest rumbles with a laugh, but he doesn’t respond, so I keep going.

“And another thing—”

I’m interrupted by a low, guttural growl. Labored breathing. Slow, thumping steps. Warrose and I perk up at the same time, instantly zeroing in on a massive figure passing our cages. Slowly. A gargantuan man that’s over six foot seven with hair so long, it grazes the floor behind him. No shirt. Black pants. And a metal cage around his head. Rusted iron like a muzzle for a dog.

The collar around his throat is attached to a long chain that drags against the floor behind him. I flinch as he stops in front of my cage, hand gripping my bars.

I hold my breath, and every muscle of Warrose’s body seems to turn to stone.

There’s a prisoner out of his cage!

He doesn’t look at me, though he lingers close as if he’s waiting for me to make a movement he can track.

And I smell him. Months of built-up rank body odor mixed with a waft of wet dog. I wince, and that’s all it takes. The giant, long-haired, muzzled man turns to me. His movements mechanical and awkward.

I gulp loudly as his beady eyes meet mine through the slits of his cage.

“Don’t move,” Warrose breathes, low and gruff.

I force myself to turn into a concrete statue. But my hands tremble at my sides, and my stomach drops as if I’m falling off a cliff. Someone get him to stop staring at me!

“He can’t hear us. But stay very still,” Dessin says quietly. I shift my gaze to him from the corner of my eye. He’s holding Skylenna’s sleeping body against the bars. And it’s clear he doesn’t want this little disturbance to wake her. In fact, Warrose, Dessin, and I are the only ones awake.

I almost ask Dessin how he knows the monstrous man can’t hear us, but I quickly see the raised, jagged scars where his ears once were.

“Keep still, little rebel. His eyes are planted on you.” And if I’m not mistaken, there’s a hint of agitation in Warrose’s voice. A territorial tone.

The prisoner grunts after a long moment, then continues to walk in a slow, dazed path.

I let myself relax back down to the floor with a long sigh. “What the hell?”

“It looks like there are some prisoners only allowed out at night,” Dessin comments before closing his eyes and resting his head back against his cage.

I nod against the chill that rakes down my flesh. Flexing my fingers, I feel a weight covering my right hand. It’s rough and warm. I nearly jerk it away before realizing it’s a hand. A strong, calloused, bronze hand.

“Are you alright?” Warrose asks without paying me a glance.

“I guess,” I say, still watching his large hand completely enveloping my own.

Warrose nods stiffly.

I remain still, afraid that if I move at all, his hand will return to his cage without another thought. I should want that. But for some reason, I hold my breath. I like the surge of heat pouring from his hand to mine. It’s so unbelievably comforting. A touch of solace I’ve been desperate for.

I don’t want him to let go.

It could be anyone’s hand, of course. I still don’t like him or his bad attitude. But considering this situation, I accept the fate.

“Sleeping is going to be fun with these big scary men walking around at night,” I say in a hushed tone. I just want to snuggle against that warm hand.

“Isn’t it, though?” Warrose chuckles. “This place just keeps getting better and better.”

I let my head settle back down on the rocky ground. I’m deeply uncomfortable. My stomach twists with the need for warm bread or a glass of milk. But at least my stomach will look flat while I’m in this revealing uniform. My thighs won’t touch. My shoulders will remain sharp and pointed. All is right.

“Is this the worst place you’ve ever had to sleep?” I ask. I’m not sure I want to know the answer. But I need a distraction. Something to help me fall asleep in this cage. Something to make me forget about the giant, earless man that stalks the halls of this prison.

“Sadly, no.”

“Top five?”

He nods.

“What was the worst?” My heart jumps as Warrose adjusts his hands on top of mine. But he doesn’t take it away.

“Uh”—he scratches the facial hair growing thicker along his jaw—“I had to hide from a nadaskar once. By sleeping under a dead bear.”

“What?” I hiss, trying not to wake the others.

Warrose nods. “I was eleven. Part of my training was to track down a rabid nadaskar. It ended up tracking me. Nearly tore my leg off. The only way to get it to forget about my scent was to sleep under a dead bear for a while.”

I have no words. Not a single appropriate response. Do I apologize? Tell him I can relate? I understand? I cannot. Hopefully, I never will.

“What about you?”

“This is definitely the worst. But the time you made me sleep in a tree comes to a close second.”

One night, while we were following Skylenna, Warrose was sure we were being followed. He made us climb a tree while we watched Demechnef soldiers trying to track where we went next. I complained all night, only stopping when Niles fell out and screamed in pain as he landed on his burned skin.

He scoffs. “You’re such a brat. The only thing that made sleeping in a tree unbearable was hearing you whine about it.”

“I’ve been told my whining is quite cute. Sexy, even.”

“You have been lied to.”

I snort. “Men don’t lie when they’re in the thrusts of passion.”

Okay, so I’ve never actually experienced thrusts of passion. I did, however, lose my virginity to Benjamin Darthmunt, who lasted a good three pumps before grunting like a dying engine and landing on top of me in a sweaty heap. We did it three more times after that over the span of two months. I kept thinking it would get better. Maybe he’d last longer.

He did not.

It was awful.

Warrose’s scratchy hand flexes over mine, gripping my knuckles like he wants to yank my arm and pull me into his cage. The sheer strength of his grip sends a rush of heat to my belly, sliding down my thighs.

“So, these men that are thrusting with passion are making you whine in bed, then?” His voice is dark and smoky, like a massive campfire at midnight.

“That’s right.” Not true. The only noise I made was to ask, is it over?

“It was bad sex,” he states.

“Uh, no. It was really good. Like really good. So good.”

Warrose turns his head, giving me an amused look of disbelief.

“Good,” I add again like an idiot.

“If it was so good, then you wouldn’t be whining. You’d be screaming your lover’s name as each orgasm crashes into you. That’s good sex, little rebel.” That entire sentence is like diving off a cliff and falling into warm honey. I’m wet. Shamefully slick between my legs. Warrose’s dreamy hazel-blue eyes flick down to my bobbing throat.

I huff. “You don’t look like the screaming type, War-Man.”

“You’re right. I’m the growling, groaning, roaring into your neck as I slam into the hilt type. I’m the type that will have my face buried between your thighs for hours before I let myself come.” His gaze turns dark, hazy even. I’ve never seen a man’s eyes dilate to the point of black saucers.

I can’t help it. My hand opens for him. And for just a moment, he’s surprised. A brief glint of shock. But he acts quickly. Those large fingers curl through my own, and his thumb traces over my skin slowly. A gentle tease. A steady pulse of pleasure zings up my arm.

I pinch my thighs together as if my life depends on it.

What am I doing? I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. But this feels so good. I imagine the sound of him growling in my ear. The feel of his weight rocking over my body.

I let out a quick breath as if to force out this attraction seeping through my veins, tightening my muscles, and making me involuntarily clench around air.

Warrose is not my type. I’ve always been attracted to gentlemen. Golden boys with blond hair, soft features, and charming personalities. That’s what I was raised to find handsome. Romantic. Stable.

“Promise me something?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“Never.” I smile.

“You can mouth off with me in private, be your usual bratty self. But you need to keep your attitude in check when we’re out in the open.”

“Excuse me?” My chest tightens.

“Behave.”

I yank my hand from his grip. “That’s cute. How did you see this conversation going in your head, chicken coward?” Steam practically bursts from my ears. Behave. I already feel like a helpless child in this group. And now I’m being told not to get in the way. I’m not big-mouth Niles. I know how to keep a low profile. “Behave,” I mock.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Please. Stick your foot further into your mouth and explain.”

Warrose looks down at his empty hand. “This place is full of men that…” he growls under his breath, running his other hand through his hair.

“That what?”

“And you’re you, Ruth.”

I stiffen at the sound his voice makes when he says my name. He never uses my name.

“I’m me?”

“I’m going to lose my mind if any of them try…” He trails off again, grunting at his inability to express whatever is frustrating him.

“Are you going to finish any of these sentences?” I ask.

His throat bobs, and his eyes fall closed.

“Warrose?”

“Forget it, little rebel.”

Forget what? He hasn’t said anything.

I watch as he pulls his hand back into his own cage, turning onto his side before his breathing turns rough and heavy.