Something is different today. She's heard all sorts of noises from upstairs over the months, from footsteps, to chatter and laughing, moaning and fucking and sometimes screaming. The rushed stomping of boots, curt male voices barking at one another, and the occasional ominous thud are like nothing she's overheard in all her time here. By now, though, Croía is numb to anything that might happen, and she just huddles further into the corner where the thin mattress meets the wall and pulls her threadbare blanket tighter around her shoulders. Her head tilts slightly so that she can listen to the commotion upstairs, but her eyes lack curiosity or hope or any kind of light whatsoever, staring at where her bare, dirty feet are pressed together, knees drawn to her chest.
Month One
Croía screams, only to have the sound promptly cut short as a rag is stuffed between her teeth, roughly shoved into the back of her mouth until the noise has shifted to a gurgling, choking cough. The burning pain in the muscle of where her neck and shoulder meet doesn't subside–if anything, it increases. Her vision is blurred by the tears streaking down her cheeks, and the metallic scent of blood fills her nose, only succeeding in making Croía cry harder. There's a knee pressed into her spine and bound arms, heavy enough that she can't feel her hands anymore, and another digging into the small of her back, pinning her mercilessly to the textured, grooved floor of a blacked-out van; her cheekbone is digging into one of the raised lips of the flooring, leaving an angry red abrasion across her face. Beside the man restraining her, his partner kneels beside them, his face fixed in concentration on whatever the fuck he's doing. Surprisingly, he had the basic decency to wear gloves. She thinks the worst of it is over when he pulls the blade away from her skin, but then the pain turns absolutely blinding when he jams his finger deep into the wound, and she screams against her gag in earnest, thrashing in a desperate effort for freedom before a hand falls firmly on her head, gripping her hair tightly and shoving her head back down against the floor. Croía screams and sobs and splutters until her assailant finally pulls back, and there's the sound of a window rolling down briefly as the van roars down the highway, no doubt discarding the tracking device that had been embedded in her flesh alongside the road. How they had any idea she was tagged in such a way, let alone where to find it on her person, she has no idea. Any trace of hope she may have had leaves her on the wind, gone with the tracker.
She doesn't know how, in the span of ten short minutes, she had gone from dancing and socializing to getting thrown into a van and having some psychopath cut a freaking hole into her neck. Ruarc never leaves her alone–not entirely, and she'd been accompanied by one of her regular guards to the bathroom. An attendant had been blocking the doors, however, telling them that the bathroom closest to the event hall was currently closed, and directed them to one much further away. Croía hadn't thought anything of it then, but when she'd stepped back out into the hall to find her guard replaced by a stranger, she hadn't even had time to scream. He'd simply slapped a hand over her mouth and dragged her out a side door, where the van and his comrades had been waiting. The whole thing had been planned, calculated, and executed with flawless efficiency. She wonders if Ruarc has even realized she's gone yet. Croía doesn't love Ruarc by any means, but he's never treated her like this, and if her choice is between these men or him, she'd pick her husband any day.
The rest of the drive is nearly silent, save for the sound of her heavy breathing and quiet sobbing. Eventually, the van rolls to a halt, and Croía's captors make quick work of dragging her into a lone, dilapidated house. It's so dark outside that she can't see lights coming from anywhere else, suggesting they're miles from civilization. Inside, and down not one set of stairs, but two, Croía is finally dropped to her knees in a dark, musty room. Her hands are moved and re-bound in front of her, connected to a length of light chain that's clipped and locked onto an eye hook in the wall. She's still crying when she watches them depart up the steep stairs, the door set into the ceiling rather than the wall. The dirt floor is cold beneath her bare feet–her shoes had disappeared during the initial scuffle–and the only source of light is one flickering, buzzing light bulb in the middle of the ceiling. She realizes, with a sort of hysterical despair, that they've locked her in a fucking cellar.
- - - - - -
Somehow, she manages to get a few hours of sleep, and when she wakes up, everything hurts. At first, she can't quite recall what happened or where she is, but as she lifts her hand to reach for her aching shoulder, she's met with the chafing resistant of the ropes keeping her hands bound, and it all comes rushing back. Croía whimpers softly and pushes herself into a seated position from the ball she'd been curled into on the thin mattress, the rusty springs of the metal bed-frame creaking beneath her weight. She raises her hands again to gently prod at her shoulder, wincing at the flare of pain and pulling her fingers back to see them glistening red in the low light. The thud of boots above her makes her jump, her wide eyes snapping up towards the door a few moments before it opens, flooding the space with light and causing her to lift her hands in front of her face against how blinding it is.
She's dragged out of her 'room' as unceremoniously as she'd been dumped into it, and no amount of pleas or terrified tears streaming down her cheeks convince them to give her any sort of answers about why she's here or what they want with her. Croía ends up in a room full of men with leering eyes, and then wandering hands as a new man steps up behind her, unzipping her dress without fanfare. Another is in front of her, holding her wrists so she can't go anywhere even as she struggles and cries, her face red and splotchy. He grabs her hair roughly, yanking Croía's head back against his chest so he can hiss in her ear to stop "being an uncooperative bitch if you want to live." That takes the fight out of her pretty quickly, though her lower jaw doesn't stop trembling when he drags her dress down her body, making certain his rough hands grope her breasts and hips on the way down–making certain she can feel that he's hard against her lower back. She has no idea how she's going to get out of all this, but Croía does want to live. She wants to see her children again. She has to.
Naked, she's pulled by her wrists over to a couch, where the man with a vice grip on her leash plops down onto the end cushion and promptly begins to unbutton his pants. A little whimper bubbles up in her throat and Croía shakes her head frantically, her eyes wide and panicked at the sight of him freeing his dick, but the man just chuckles darkly and yanks her roughly forward so that she tips over the couch arm, her face in his lap and her ass in the air. She panics, scrambling backwards only to be met with a hot body behind her and fingers sinking into her hips in a bruising grip. "Behave," the one who'd stripped her growls, fisting a hand in her hair and shoving her face back down to his friend's waiting cock. Couch Guy takes over control of Croía's head, one hand roughly in her hair and the other pinching her cheeks harshly until her mouth opens, allowing him to jam his dick between her lips. Choking audibly on the man driving into her mouth, her scream is completely internal and caught in her throat when the one behind her shoves the entire length of himself into her with one brutal thrust.
That first night is far from the last. She's only returned to her cell after the entire room of men has been satisfied, broken and bleeding in more ways than she can count. Her one and only silver lining is the fact that they'd finally untied her wrists, giving her the freedom to curl up on the bare mattress and sob until she passes out.
Month Three
She has no sense of time. There's no window down here, and that infernal light never changes, never quiets its ceaseless fucking buzzing. She gets fed sporadically, like they only remember to toss down food for their pet when they want to play–which is often. Not three meals a day often, but enough that she probably won't starve to death. Sometimes she wishes she would. Anytime she's brought upstairs to...service one (or more) of them, they bring her to a small bathroom with an even smaller utility shower first, always hosing her down with cold-as-fuck water (she's pretty sure because they love how it makes her nibbles pebble). Sometimes, they're even nice enough to provide her with a bar of soap. Apparently, they don't like their sex toys to be dirty. Granted, she only gets these showers before such an encounter, which means she gets to spend most of her hours alone and filthy and sticky with cum and saliva. She has no idea what they do with them, but they often take photos of her. She tries not to think too hard about where those pictures end up. Croía is pretty certain they're keeping other girls here too, but she's never seen them. Whether they're all kept separate or just her, she has no idea.
At some point, she'd stopped crying. She'd stopped fighting. She'd stopped...feeling, for the most part. It's easier to go numb than to let herself ache, or hope that there's a freedom from this hell. If Ruarc had any plan to come for her, he surely would have done it by now. If he wasn't part of this scheme, then he's certainly let it give him an out–heirs for free, without the burden of his unwilling, timid wife. She can't even blame him. The twins are better off without her anyway; they'll be stronger this way.
Month Four
"Fuck! HELP!" His voice, loud as it is and echoing around the small room, is only a distant ringing in Croía's ears. Her eyelids flutter sluggishly, and her heart has slowed to a crawl. Vaguely, she's aware of her arms being moved, and then pressure against her wrists. "Noo," she protests weakly, but her complaints fall on deaf ears, as they always do. Her body is moving next, hoisted into sturdy arms before they're ascending the stairs. Twin pools of red glisten faintly where she'd been laying, soaking slowly into the dirt. Consciousness slips away from her.
She'd spent days carefully deconstructing parts of her bed frame so they wouldn't notice, finally wiggling one of the rusty metal springs free. The rough stone wall had served a perfect purpose in sharpening the end of it, and once she'd had her crude weapon, Croía had no desire to turn it on anyone else. That had never been her intention. She just wanted it to be over. She should've known that was too much to ask for.
Month Six: Present Day
They'd taken away the bed frame after that. Now her paper thin mattress sits on the dirt floor. Despite the fact that she'd miraculously survived her attempt on her life, Croía never really came back after that. She let her mind slip away, buried somewhere so deep that she might as well be dead for how human she appears. Why they bother anymore, she has no fucking clue.
Her arms are folded over her bent knees, thumbs idly rubbing at the raised scars that mar each of her wrists. Whatever is going on upstairs gets louder and more chaotic. Gunfire starts to resound through the house, and her vacant eyes flick towards the light bulb on the ceiling, watching it sway on its chain from the vibrations. Shivering, Croía rests her chin on her knees, lifting a hand to absently trace over the pockmark scar on her shoulder.
At first, she doesn't realize that it's gone quiet. It registers slowly, with an animalistic tilt of her head, that the gunshots, the bangs, the yelling has stopped. Now there's only footsteps, pounding through the house. Opening doors. Barking low orders.
The door above the stairs rattles. Thumps. Opens. She raises a hand against the light, rocking forward onto the balls of her feet, but Croía is otherwise still and silent where she crouches in the far corner. Heavy footsteps thump down the stairs, and a man she doesn't recognize appears, pausing at the base to slowly look around until he spots her. Croía curls a lip in warning, baring her teeth like some wild thing. He only lifts his hands placatingly, like he's trying to seem non-threatening as he turns his head to the side and calls up the stairs, "Boss."
Croía tenses, her eyes flicking rapidly between the man and the stairs behind him. Boss? Who the fuck is Boss?
She gave up hope so long ago that it doesn't even cross her mind that it isn't her damnation coming, but salvation.
Ruarc:
"Fucking DRIVE!!" Ruarc bellowed, his right foot stomping instinctively in the footwell of the passengers side of the vehicle, as if that would make the driver go faster. He was seething, rage permeated his skin like sweat. The tracking app was open on his phone; a finger refreshing her location obsessively as it continued on the highway... for only a few more seconds.
And then it stopped.
The engine roared as Devon pressed the pedal into the floor, surging the car forward as their location closed in on what should have been Croia.
They slowed.
Ruarc's eyes scanned the road. Nothing. He opened the door before Devon had stopped, leaping out and miraculously catching himself before he bit it. He dove into the banks, skidding down the slopes as large hands shoved foliage and garbage aside, wishing and hoping he didn't find her dead body. But there was nothing. He clenched his phone, staring at the screen as his marker blipped right next to Croia's - but she wasn't here. Which only meant one thing. They had found the tracking device, and fucking removed it. They harmed her, which meant they had the potential to do so much more.
Anger swelled in his chest as he stomped back up to the road; Devon waiting by the drivers door. One look told his henchman enough - they both got into the car, and the tires squealed as he turned around and drove back home, forgetting about the party.
...
Disbelief creased his face; nothing but a blank expression as he sat, legs splayed and bent over, staring unseeing at the ground. Three men stood in front of him - his men - and they exchanged looks of unease at each other now once Devon had explained they had found absolutely nothing. No trace, no facial matches on cameras, nothing. He wanted to scream. To smash his phone into the ground - which he had done at least three times since her disappearance, but that wasn't important - and now if it wasn't for the fact that Devon was almost as useful to him as Kieran, he'd have felt the wrath of Ruarc by now as well. But he had to save it - to withhold until he found whatever piece of shit stole his wife. Flashbacks of Nylah's disappearance kept eating at the corners of his mind, but he stubbornly pushed them down. He'd failed his family again, but he couldn't--
Don't think about that.
...
6 Months Later:
Determination never wavered. He'd find her. Somehow. Months had passed, though, and doubt was beginning to sink deep into his bones.
"Ruarc," it was Kieran, again. The always present thorn in his side. He was searching just as hard as Ruarc, and had found some leads over the passed few months, but nothing substantial. Every time it ended in disappointment, Ruarc came home and locked himself away in histheir room. Her smell was still here, and he hadn't touched her side of the bed. In fact, he'd hardly slept. The thin skin around his eyes was black with sleep deprivation, and his patience - what little existed in the first place - was worn and brittle. He snapped at anyone and everyone, even if he knew deep down they didn't deserve it. Even Kieran received numerous outbursts, but like a good brother, he always took them in stride and left his grieving brother in peace.
Because that's what this was now - surely, at this point, he was a widow. He wallowed in his self pity in the comfort of his room, away from his men. But here Kieran was again, infiltrating his personal space and refusing to let him accept what reality was now.
"Ruarc!" it was so unlike him to actually have passion in his voice. Slowly, purple eyes lifted to stare at his brother, though the lack of emotion was almost... creepy. He felt nothing. Like a piece of his soul was gone; the one that actually valued living. Why? It wasn't as if Croia ever actually showed enjoyment in being his wife. Surely, she probably hated him. Perhaps wherever she was now, it was better than the life he'd given her.
"She's been sighted," Kieran pushed further; an attempt to reignite the flame to find her. "We found... well, you can look for yourself." and then a laptop was shoved into his hands. His eyes flickered over the screen, seeing pictures of an emaciated woman with wavy brown hair being fucked in various positions, with an assortment of men. Her skin was ghastly; obviously coloured but so pale from malnutrition and lack of sunlight. When her face was clear in the photo, her familiar green eyes were dull with fatigue and despair.
And it was almost instantaneous, when he saw his wife in these photos, that the rage from those first few days exploded within him. It consumed every inch of his body, flooding his veins and electrifying every nerve ending as he stood up forcefully, one hand pitching the laptop across the room so hard and so fast that it shattered on impact. An animalistic snarl exploded from him, his thoughts obsessing over all the men who had touched what was his. He thought about their disgusting hands on her body, how they must be humiliating her and how she must feel... abandoned. They were all intrusive thoughts; ones he couldn't control and knew weren't helpful. But they fueled the fire within him catastrophically, and all he wanted to do was mutilate every man who harmed her. He also knew that Kieran already had her location, and whatever fuckin' data he needed off that laptop. He knew the cars would be waiting, with the GPS's already set.
And so he strode out of the room, heading towards the mansions armoury before getting into the car with Devon and Kieran.
...
A few hours later, he was sticky with blood that wasn't his and sweat that stung his eyes. He'd lost count of how many people he'd killed, but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough to sate the bloodthirst that coursed through him. She still wasn't found, and they'd cleared multiple levels of this dingy shithole. There was hardly any identification on any of them, and he was still clueless on who had orchestrated the infiltration of his party, and who had stolen his wife. However, he knew that he had the faces of most of the men who had stuck his dick in Croia, and he had some of his people searching for their names for hunting later on. First, he needed to get her back home.
Another bullet flew from the chamber of his pistol, dropping a man as it pierced his heart. He held another with a fistful of his collar, as he seemed to be a bit too cocky for Ruarc's liking. She had to be close at this point, and surely this guy had to have some knowledge on her location. A few quick punches to the face, a broken nose and promises to emasculate him resulted in exactly what he wanted - she was down in a cellar; the door hidden underneath a rug in the basement. Kieran was off dispatching the remaining of the degenerates here, and so Devon was the first to descend with Ruarc in tow with his new toy.
Devon entered the cellar first. And it didn't take much for Ruarc to know that they had found her. The henchman exited, and Ruarc tasked him with handcuffing the man before he went in to see his wife.
"Croia," he mumbled, his eyes drinking in her poor state. Her bones were visible; her garments unkempt and dirty. She was a ghost, hardly alive and clearly completely disassociated.
And it was all his fault.
"Fucking DRIVE!!" Ruarc bellowed, his right foot stomping instinctively in the footwell of the passengers side of the vehicle, as if that would make the driver go faster. He was seething, rage permeated his skin like sweat. The tracking app was open on his phone; a finger refreshing her location obsessively as it continued on the highway... for only a few more seconds.
And then it stopped.
The engine roared as Devon pressed the pedal into the floor, surging the car forward as their location closed in on what should have been Croia.
They slowed.
Ruarc's eyes scanned the road. Nothing. He opened the door before Devon had stopped, leaping out and miraculously catching himself before he bit it. He dove into the banks, skidding down the slopes as large hands shoved foliage and garbage aside, wishing and hoping he didn't find her dead body. But there was nothing. He clenched his phone, staring at the screen as his marker blipped right next to Croia's - but she wasn't here. Which only meant one thing. They had found the tracking device, and fucking removed it. They harmed her, which meant they had the potential to do so much more.
Anger swelled in his chest as he stomped back up to the road; Devon waiting by the drivers door. One look told his henchman enough - they both got into the car, and the tires squealed as he turned around and drove back home, forgetting about the party.
...
Disbelief creased his face; nothing but a blank expression as he sat, legs splayed and bent over, staring unseeing at the ground. Three men stood in front of him - his men - and they exchanged looks of unease at each other now once Devon had explained they had found absolutely nothing. No trace, no facial matches on cameras, nothing. He wanted to scream. To smash his phone into the ground - which he had done at least three times since her disappearance, but that wasn't important - and now if it wasn't for the fact that Devon was almost as useful to him as Kieran, he'd have felt the wrath of Ruarc by now as well. But he had to save it - to withhold until he found whatever piece of shit stole his wife. Flashbacks of Nylah's disappearance kept eating at the corners of his mind, but he stubbornly pushed them down. He'd failed his family again, but he couldn't--
Don't think about that.
...
6 Months Later:
Determination never wavered. He'd find her. Somehow. Months had passed, though, and doubt was beginning to sink deep into his bones.
"Ruarc," it was Kieran, again. The always present thorn in his side. He was searching just as hard as Ruarc, and had found some leads over the passed few months, but nothing substantial. Every time it ended in disappointment, Ruarc came home and locked himself away in his
Because that's what this was now - surely, at this point, he was a widow. He wallowed in his self pity in the comfort of his room, away from his men. But here Kieran was again, infiltrating his personal space and refusing to let him accept what reality was now.
"Ruarc!" it was so unlike him to actually have passion in his voice. Slowly, purple eyes lifted to stare at his brother, though the lack of emotion was almost... creepy. He felt nothing. Like a piece of his soul was gone; the one that actually valued living. Why? It wasn't as if Croia ever actually showed enjoyment in being his wife. Surely, she probably hated him. Perhaps wherever she was now, it was better than the life he'd given her.
"She's been sighted," Kieran pushed further; an attempt to reignite the flame to find her. "We found... well, you can look for yourself." and then a laptop was shoved into his hands. His eyes flickered over the screen, seeing pictures of an emaciated woman with wavy brown hair being fucked in various positions, with an assortment of men. Her skin was ghastly; obviously coloured but so pale from malnutrition and lack of sunlight. When her face was clear in the photo, her familiar green eyes were dull with fatigue and despair.
And it was almost instantaneous, when he saw his wife in these photos, that the rage from those first few days exploded within him. It consumed every inch of his body, flooding his veins and electrifying every nerve ending as he stood up forcefully, one hand pitching the laptop across the room so hard and so fast that it shattered on impact. An animalistic snarl exploded from him, his thoughts obsessing over all the men who had touched what was his. He thought about their disgusting hands on her body, how they must be humiliating her and how she must feel... abandoned. They were all intrusive thoughts; ones he couldn't control and knew weren't helpful. But they fueled the fire within him catastrophically, and all he wanted to do was mutilate every man who harmed her. He also knew that Kieran already had her location, and whatever fuckin' data he needed off that laptop. He knew the cars would be waiting, with the GPS's already set.
And so he strode out of the room, heading towards the mansions armoury before getting into the car with Devon and Kieran.
...
A few hours later, he was sticky with blood that wasn't his and sweat that stung his eyes. He'd lost count of how many people he'd killed, but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough to sate the bloodthirst that coursed through him. She still wasn't found, and they'd cleared multiple levels of this dingy shithole. There was hardly any identification on any of them, and he was still clueless on who had orchestrated the infiltration of his party, and who had stolen his wife. However, he knew that he had the faces of most of the men who had stuck his dick in Croia, and he had some of his people searching for their names for hunting later on. First, he needed to get her back home.
Another bullet flew from the chamber of his pistol, dropping a man as it pierced his heart. He held another with a fistful of his collar, as he seemed to be a bit too cocky for Ruarc's liking. She had to be close at this point, and surely this guy had to have some knowledge on her location. A few quick punches to the face, a broken nose and promises to emasculate him resulted in exactly what he wanted - she was down in a cellar; the door hidden underneath a rug in the basement. Kieran was off dispatching the remaining of the degenerates here, and so Devon was the first to descend with Ruarc in tow with his new toy.
Devon entered the cellar first. And it didn't take much for Ruarc to know that they had found her. The henchman exited, and Ruarc tasked him with handcuffing the man before he went in to see his wife.
"Croia," he mumbled, his eyes drinking in her poor state. Her bones were visible; her garments unkempt and dirty. She was a ghost, hardly alive and clearly completely disassociated.
And it was all his fault.
"Croía."
The voice is low and broken, but that—that's her name. She blinks once, surprised. Her head angles to the side, a cascade of filthy dark hair falling over her shoulder. She hasn't heard her name in months. Hasn't dared even whisper it to herself in the dark, because whoever she once was...she isn't that person anymore. She isn't a person anymore.
This isn't real.
He isn't real.
Shaking her head, Croía hugs her knees tighter, nothing more than a kicked dog cowering in the corner. She rocks slightly, from the balls of her feet to her heels and back again, her head still shaking in denial. This is just a trap, just another game, another way to break down what little shreds of humanity she has left. This isn't real. Not real. Not real.
"Notrealnotrealnotreal," she whispers on repeat like an automaton, unaware that she's even speaking as she tucks her face down against her bare knees, hiding from a reality she's too terrified to accept. Perhaps this is just the last of her sanity splintering away like ash, allowing her to hallucinate some heroic rescue. Perhaps if she hides for long enough, this cruel mirage of freedom at her fingertips will go away, leave her in peace. The only place she has peace is in this darkness, and she needs it to stay that way. She won't bear it if the shadows turn against her too.
So he...he can't be real. He's just the ghost of someone she used to know, a long time ago. He's just a memory. She reminds herself, over and over and over again: "notrealnotrealnotreal."
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that she was broken. Shattered, a million pieces of his wife lay in front of him, constructed into a wasted skeleton and barely held together with filthy glue. Her eyes are sunken, devoid of the woman he used to know and instead replaced by some kind of feral creature - which he couldn’t blame her. He couldn’t imagine the horrors she’d been subjected to since being thrown in this pit, and his blood boiled, spilling over and dousing his emotions once again in blindingly hot white rage.
“Bring him,” he hissed over his shoulder, , his dark eyes never leaving his wife, and Devon complied immediately. The scoundrel was shoved into this disgusting hole, and he whimpered and pleaded towards Ruarc, who was deaf to any empathy the man was trying to seek. In fact, it only aggravated him, each whine grating against him until he could only snarl his frustration at the man, and he whipped around with remarkable grace. Fists caught his throat and he pulled him up close, staring into the man’s watering eyes for a breath before he up and just bit off his fucking nose. Cartilage crunched between his teeth, fracturing as flesh was sheared off.
Blood gushed profusely, filling his mouth but he was too far gone to give a shit at the moment. His body didn’t even heave, his gag reflex forgotten. Spitting the flesh back at him, he turned to Croia, regarding her with a sadness that sank a knife into his heart. There probably wasn’t anything he could do to fix her, not right now, and surely the blood running down his face and the screaming, helpless man in his hands didn’t help things…
But he had hell to pay, and in his mind, Croia needed to see that Ruarc wasn’t the bad guy here, even if she didn’t realize it yet.
A switchblade materialized in his one hand, and he began to press it along the guys throat, slicing through the skin. And he was calm.
“Bring him,” he hissed over his shoulder, , his dark eyes never leaving his wife, and Devon complied immediately. The scoundrel was shoved into this disgusting hole, and he whimpered and pleaded towards Ruarc, who was deaf to any empathy the man was trying to seek. In fact, it only aggravated him, each whine grating against him until he could only snarl his frustration at the man, and he whipped around with remarkable grace. Fists caught his throat and he pulled him up close, staring into the man’s watering eyes for a breath before he up and just bit off his fucking nose. Cartilage crunched between his teeth, fracturing as flesh was sheared off.
Blood gushed profusely, filling his mouth but he was too far gone to give a shit at the moment. His body didn’t even heave, his gag reflex forgotten. Spitting the flesh back at him, he turned to Croia, regarding her with a sadness that sank a knife into his heart. There probably wasn’t anything he could do to fix her, not right now, and surely the blood running down his face and the screaming, helpless man in his hands didn’t help things…
But he had hell to pay, and in his mind, Croia needed to see that Ruarc wasn’t the bad guy here, even if she didn’t realize it yet.
A switchblade materialized in his one hand, and he began to press it along the guys throat, slicing through the skin. And he was calm.
But then a god-awful shriek rends the air.
Croía jumps, her head snapping up from its burrowed posture and locking eyes briefly with the depth of his tortured violet gaze. Blood streams down his chin in rivulets. The man before him is still screaming. His...his nose is gone. Croía swallows hard, but as gruesome as the scene in front of her is, it's enough to snap her out of her daze. It's enough to let her remember who that man is...who both men are.
No one is watching Croía when she silently gets to her feet, discarding her threadbare blanket on the thin mattress and leaving her in a dirty, semi-transparent slip that leaves little to the imagination. Modesty ceased to be anything of value to her a long time ago. Bare feet pad along the dirt floor, not making a sound; she stops just behind a broad shoulder, his arm lifted as his blade cuts into the skin of his victim.
And her tormentor.
Her hand lifts before he can get too far, and her fingers curl around his wrist, tugging slightly at his arm. Asking for the knife.
She isn't looking at the man she's still partially lurking behind—the man whose name she can't yet bring herself to say, even in her head—but at the bleeding, blubbering, begging-for-mercy monster in his grip. There's a resolute hatred in her flat golden eyes. She tugs on that muscled, ink-and-blood stained forearm again.
And her free hand is fisted so tightly in the fabric of his shirt that her knuckles are a stark, chalky white.