Page 134 of Decimation

She does, her body convulsing against the ropes as she screams my name. I don’t stop, my tongue and fingers working her through her orgasm, drawing it out until she’s trembling, her breaths coming in ragged gasps.

When she finally stills I pull back, looking up at her. Her face is flushed, her chest heaving and she glares down at me, her eyes filled with a mix of anger and desire.

“You’re mine,” I say, my voice low, possessive, dripping with dark promise. “And I’ll never let you go.”

She doesn’t respond, her body sagging against the ropes and I smile, knowing I’ve claimed her in both the eyes of the Brethren and in every other way that matters.

She’s mine.

And nothing will ever change that.

“Nethnakkē min ḥṭāhā, w’nitḥazzē b’kheshokhā d’nuhra.” Be cleansed of sin and be remade through the darkness into light.

I think I’m delirious, I think I’m actually dying. I must be now. It’s been too long, I’ve lost too much blood.

The world is a blur of pain and delirium. My hands are numb, and pins and needles are crawling up my arms like tiny insects gnawing at my flesh. My feet, I can’t feel them at all. They’re cold, lifeless, as if they’ve been severed from my body. My head lolls forward, my braided hair heavy with sweat and blood, sticking to my face in a way that makes me want to scream. I try to lift it, to see where I am, but my neck feels like it’s made of lead.

Shadows move around me. Are they angels or demons? I can’t tell. I think even if it were the dogs of hell, I would go with them willingly now. I would take their hand, step off this piece of wood, and meet my end without complaint.

“Leandra.”

I blink back, feeling like my throat is so dry I cannot actually form words.

I just want it to end. I just want to die.

The air is thick with incense, and the scent burns my lungs with every shallow breath I take. My vision swims, colours swirling around me in chaotic patterns that make me feel like I’m going to puke.

I try to focus on my surroundings and realize I’m no longer in the chamber where I was flayed and burnt. This room is different, larger, grander.

It hits me suddenly that I’m in a chapel. The chapel. Where Konstantine covered me in the remains of his rotting wife and then fucked me with her bone. I can see the altar, I can see the pulpit. The walls are lined with stained glass windows, the flickering candlelight casting eerie shadows across the stone floor.

When did they move me?

Did they carry me here, still tied to this crucifix?

The thought makes my stomach churn.

There are five men around me, all robed in red cloaks that obscure their faces. Their colours swirl around them, flickering from one colour to another so quickly I can’t read them. One of them sits in a wheelchair, and I remember him, remember who he is. Zayn. One of the Guardians.

They’re chanting in Aramaic, their voices low and guttural, the words unfamiliar but filled with power. The sound reverberates through the chapel, echoing off the walls and sinking into my bones. I want to scream, to tell them to stop but my voice is gone, lost in the haze of pain and exhaustion.

Then he steps forward, he parts them like Moses parting the Red Sea.

A man in the golden cloak.

I don’t need to see his face to know who he is. To know it is him. I bet the bastard is smiling, bet under that cloak he has the biggest fucking grin stretched across his stupid handsome face.

My heart skips a beat as a strange mix of fear and something else, something I don’t want to acknowledge, flares in my chest. His colours are different from the others, brighter, more intense. Gold and crimson swirl around him, pulsing with a raw, primal energy that makes my breath catch and my body feel hot in a way that is shameful.

He kneels at my feet in an act that almost certainly reverent. One of the red-robed men steps forward, holding a golden bowl filled with water. Lazarus dips his hands into it, cupping the liquid in his palms.

“With this holy water,” he says, and it’s hard not to ignore the obvious need, the pride too. “I cleanse your body.”

He washes my feet, the water cool against my skin. It’s a strange sensation, almost soothing, but it doesn’t ease the pain radiating through me.

I then watch as he stands and removes his golden robe, as he tosses it aside.

He’s naked beneath it, and those intricate tattoos that cover his entire body seem to shift and move in the flickering candlelight. I stare at him, my mind struggling to process what I’m seeing. It can’t be real. It can’t be. The ink on his skin looks alive, it looks like it’s crawling over him, twisting and writhing in patterns that make my head spin.