When Blood Runs Cold - Chapter 229

“Fascinating…” Azrael says in a way that seems to denote it is not fascinating at all- in fact he sounds rather bored. I doubt Azrael would have needed such a vivid description of the girl, even if he did ask, as for the most part, he likely already knows the major details of the soul herself, considering he knows her location. Besides, he was never one to labour over the minor details, more taken to being quick and efficient in every aspect of life: plans, rituals, love life, and even sex to some extent. Then again, I have never had the horror of experiencing that department.

But the point is, if he so desires to find the soul, he will do so, description regardless. It would seem the twisted prince has a scarily honed ability at finding powerful souls. After all, he did manage to find one once.

Through the bone chilling silence that wavers in the air like a thick fog, Asocrates pipes up:

“I can show you a painting of her, if you like? Perhaps this will aid you in your endeavours?” Asocrates prompts, aided by an affirmative murmuring of the others around the table, who dab their stained mouths with  handkerchiefs meticulously. From the way he eagerly sits at the edge of his seat, one might suppose that such a request is merely a ploy to remove himself from the presence of the white haired vampire, and the room packed with tranced individuals that he once called his friends.

But while the information departed is rather interesting to me, Azrael continues to pay it no mind, his attention long since drawn from the trembling faery at the other end of the room. Instead his eyes trained, unmoving, on me with a hungry expression. Fear pools in my insides. Oh no.

I have seen that look before,  I remind myself inwardly, forcing myself not to pull away my gaze from those wild, crimson orbs.  That look that boils with lust and hunger, brimming with a grasping greed that takes what it wants and ignores the consequences. I am in trouble.

“I think we are done here now, Asocrates. You and your associates may leave us,” Azrael waves dismissively, his eyes never failing to remain captured on mine.

Rather dubiously, though careful not to hesitate, the company around the table rise, tucking in their clothes and patting themselves clean of the occasional residual crumb with a dust of their long, slender hands. Asocrates is the first to leave, his hand still revolving over his head, as though half expecting to feel another bout of tension there and collapse in a muddy, mind wiped mess.

Then the others follow, ushered out the door by Reshma, whose expression remains as unforgiving and blank as it always has been, leaving no trace of a consciousness inside her. As soon as she closes the door behind them, Azrael’s hands all at once become frantic, searching, tracing up and down my body, skimming the thin fabric as he brings his hands up to my scarcely covered breasts, a grin spreading on his face like a wildfire through the forest.

No, I beg internally, my insides squirming with loathing. Not this, anything but this.

“Now then, my pet,” he coos, his thumbs beginning to run circles around my clothed nipples with a brazen ease, his mouth sinking to place a string of wet, open mouthed kisses along my neck. As expected of a lusty hedonist intent of drawing pleasure from all aspects of life, Azrael does not even hesitate as his mouth runs over my skin, his fingers prying at my flesh greedily.

The desire in his body is as evident as day, and all the more sickening. I should have known that Azrael would only really want me here for the pleasures that my body could offer him. Why did this have to become such a nightmare?

“As much as these clothes look deliciously tempting on you, I am afraid I might need to… unwrap you. We wouldn’t want all that beauty covered up forever, would we? After all, it is time for the main meal,” he grins with a sickening smirk. My stomach drops to six feet under and my mind, along with my body, practically freezes in the terror of it all.

“I am going to make you feel amazing,” Azrael whispers lowly against my ear, his fingers dancing around the hem of my clothes. “Just you wait.”

With one swift sweep of his hand, he jolts the content of the table to one side, sending them clattering onto the floor- food plates and all. With the now clear space before him, he throws me roughly against the table, my back groaning under the force, but not damaged- my vampire capabilities will ensure as much.

I can see his intent glimmering in his eyes as he leans over me, the malice, the liberty he presumes himself to have as his fingers glide up my stomach, lingering around my breasts before reaching the hem of my skimpy dress. Perhaps this is some way of getting back at Soren for collapsing his plans, or perhaps this is merely another one of his lusty desires, but either way, I do not like it one bit.

Eagerly, his fingers wiggle with anticipation as they slide under the fabric, my skin tingling with disgust as his rough hands work against me.

I feel like I am going to throw up. And yet my body cannot move, frozen in shock.

“I promise this will feel good,” he smiles, placing a few wet kisses against the top of my breast. “So good you might not be able to walk for days.”

My insides scream.

He is going to rape me. Right then and there. Briefly I wonder if its worth breaking my cover for this, if there is another way to get around this. A million thoughts rush through my mind at one like a whirlwind, a tornado, dizzying my head with prospects of how I might escape, but finding none. Perhaps I could render myself unconscious, let my body and soul shift for the time being as I did once on my way to Fangorn’s, let myself go elsewhere as a projection of light to escape from this shit show.

But no. If I did that, Azrael would give me no end of questions: where did I go, what did I do? He might even suspect my body is acting under a will that is not my own. There is no point in risking it.

And just as I am preparing myself for the inevitable, a voice across the room pipes up:

“My Lord Azrael. It is time for Serena’s bath. She has not bathed in several days due to being passed out. I greatly suggest she does so before you do anything with her. It would be much better for the both of you.”

Upon these words, Azrael’s fingers stop short, easing up against my skin.

For a moment, he inspects my body, a look of disgust etched upon his features as he curls his fingers back up onto his chest, as though the notion of my skin being dirty makes his own skin crawl. Flicking his gaze back to Reshma, he adds:

“How many days?” he mutters grievously, returning his gaze once more to me. Upon his eyes reaching my body, my half torn clothes and the mess of brown hair splayed out on the table behind me, I feel my muscles convulse with disgust. But under the scrutinous gaze of Azrael, I do my best to hide it, assuming a doe eyed look of innocence and blatant misunderstanding.

“About three days, Lord Azrael,” Reshma continues in that dull and unassuming voice, a perfect mimicry of enchantment. To this, Azrael physically recoils in disgust, his lip curling. Only an inch, but it is enough to make me snicker inwardly.

“Alright,” Azrael relents at last, removing himself from his seat as he pushes a hand past his ruffled locks, a clear look of exasperation playing on his features. “Fine. Go and bathe, Serena. I shall come and collect you when I am ready,” he announces, dusting himself down of crumbs and undoubtedly stray strands of my own messy hair. Then he gives one more exasperated, part angry look, before shoving past Reshma, who barely even has time to open the door for him.

Once his footsteps echo away down the hallway, I can at last breathe a sigh of relief, my body visibly shaking as I lever myself up from the table. For a moment, I sit there, head spinning, the urge to vomit becoming only ever more prevalent, until cool, dark fingers brush over my arm, drawing me to attention. When I look into Reshma’s eyes, I can finally see her.

Not just the dull façade of spellbound magic, but her true self. Beneath her dark eyes, I can see a determination quivering there, and the fear, the exasperation at the situation she has been placed in, and the burning relief as she lifts me off the table, patting me down.

There is a small moment of hesitation as we both stand there, drinking in each others company, then:

“I thought you were married to him.”