Page 132 of Decimation

I lie there, unable to do anything but take one strike after another. Unable to do anything but beg, plead, and cry for mercy that I know they will not grant me.

The chamber is a tomb of silence, broken only by the rhythmic drip of something unseen in the shadows. The air is thick, oppressive. A cocktail of blood, sweat, and incense that coils around me like a serpent. It’s intoxicating, primal, and it stirs something dark and feral within me. My footsteps are deliberate, each one echoing like a drumbeat against the stone floor as I approach the other side of the room.

And there she is.

Leandra.

Bound naked to the crucifix, her body suspended by thick ropes that dig mercilessly into her flesh. Her arms are stretched taut, her legs dangling, limp and vulnerable. Her head hangs forward, her brightly coloured braids cascading over her face like a veil. Blood streaks her legs, dried in rivulets that pool beneath her on the cold stone floor.

She looks broken.

But she’s not.

I know she’s not.

She’s too strong for that.

I drop to my knees before her, the stone biting into my skin, but I barely register the pain. My eyes devour her, tracing every curve, every line of her body. The soft swell of her hips, the delicate curve of her thighs, the rise and fall of her chest with each shallow breath.

She’s breathtaking, even in this state.

My hands tremble as I reach out, gripping her thighs with a possessiveness that borders on madness. Her skin is warm, alive, despite the chill of the chamber. I lean in, my breath hot against her core and a low, guttural sound escapes me.

“Fuck,” I growl, my voice raw, unhinged. “You smell divine.”

I press my lips to her, tasting her, and a shudder rips through me. She’s sweet, intoxicating, and I groan against her, my hands tightening on her thighs. My tongue flicks against her clit, teasing, taunting, and I feel her body twitch in response.

She’s waking up.

Good.

I want her to feel this. I want her to remember this.

Her gasp is soft, almost a whimper, and I glance up to see her head lifting slightly, her eyes fluttering open. She looks down at me, confusion and pain etched into her features.

“La, Lazarus…” she whispers, her voice hoarse, broken.

“Shh,” I murmur, my lips brushing against her as I speak. “You’ve done so well, Leandra. You deserve this.”

Her body tenses, and she tries to pull away but my hands clamp down harder, holding her in place.

“Why…” she rasps, her voice trembling with anger and fear. “Why didn’t you stop them? Why did you let them do this to me?”

I chuckle darkly, my breath hot against her skin. “You know this is the Brethren way,” I say, my voice low, dripping with menace. “This ritual ensures you’re mine, that you’re accepted by the Guardians. It’s necessary.”

“Necessary?” she spits, her voice rising, raw with fury. “Necessary? I don’t want to be your wife! I don’t want to have anything to do with you. I hate you!”

I smile, a twisted, predatory grin, my hands sliding up her thighs to grip her hips. “You don’t mean that,” I say, my voice a dark, sultry purr. “I know you want me as much as I want you.”

She hisses, her body writhing against the ropes, but I don’t give her a chance to argue. I dive back in, my tongue lapping at her with a ferocity that borders on violence. She gasps, her body arching against the crucifix despite herself, and I feel her thighs trembling against my shoulders.

I slip a finger inside her, curling it just right and she moans, her head falling back against the wood.

“That’s it,” I murmur, my lips brushing against her as I speak. “Let go, Leandra. Let me take care of you.”

Her body responds to me, her hips rocking against my mouth. I can feel how much she’s enjoying this, how much she wants this. I add a second finger, stretching her, filling her, and she cries out, her voice echoing through the chamber.

“Lazarus…” she gasps, her voice breaking.