The Beast's Slave

viii

There is a silence.

The evening darkens in the room. Noiselessly, and with silver feet, the shadows creep in from the corners. The colours fade wearily out of things.

Hadrius is motionless, strangely staring at the naked mortal that stands before him. A girl, he had not noticed before, with the slight formation of hectic spots of red burning on her cheeks - he simply stares with vague indifference, so much so his expression would be no different whilst regarding a fly on the wall.

She seems hardly eighteen years of age, with a little flower-like face, a small Greek head with messy plaited coils of dark-brown hair, feverish eyes that burn hazel wells of amethyst caution, lips that are like the petals of a rose.

The woman behind Hadrius stirs, and slips like a ghost between him and the door, nimbly making her way to the bed. The girl seems disturbed by the sudden presence, dropping her head sharply whilst reaching for the towel on the bed. Her small hands ball into fists, a futile attempt at stiling the tremors and urge to hide her nudity.

Hadrius’ steadfast, unblinking stare follows each movement of hers, his attention lingers on the curves of her throat that reminds him of a burnt lily. Her hands are not of the usual cool ivory but rather deft and calloused with blisters - the dexterity of a slave.

But just as she forms something of a mortal before him, the curtain of disinterest shadows his darkened eyes and he turns away from the naked mortal, making for the bed where the Lycan female lay waiting.

The night falls by steadily. He no longer pays attention to the caricature of a human now pressing into the divan, peering at the two bodies that glow with sweat, beating at each other like animals. Once or twice, Hadrius hears the soft unfamiliar inhale somewhere in the depths of his mind, inadvertently tilting his ear to the juddering beat of the mortal’s heart.

His eyes lower to the slender back that curves before him, and his chiselled lips curl in exquisite disdain. He grabs handfuls of her flesh and pistons into her faster, eager to have it over and done with, willing to empty himself completely before collapsing on the mangled sheets with a slight growl and long arm flung over his eyes.

The Lycan woman rises silently, mutters a short prayer of thanks then drifts out of the room as ghostly as she had come in.

Hadrius does not move, his side aches with a dullness that occasionally pulls him from shortcoming slumber. The s*x had merely been an anodyne to his pain, and he runs a rough hand across the flat of his abdomen, feeling ridges and muscles flex restlessly beneath soft sheen on skin. His hand touches the thick wrap of bandage that snakes around his torso, sealing the wound he had sustained during the raid.

A mortal’s spear that caught at his wolf’s side, burrowing so deep it forced him to shift in order to withdraw the jagged edge that lodged between his ribcage.

He is yet to heal, the process rather tediously slow, and though his second-in-command had tried to convince him to stay in bed and heal, Hadrius could not.

There is healing in the battle field. There lies an anodyne whilst bathed in the sleek blood of his enemies.

Lying in bed was not healing, it was merely an act of cowardice.

The cruelty of his lips eases as his hand draws from his face and, with his eyes still shut, reaches across the wide bed. He feels the flame of the candle a moment later, hovering just beneath his large palm, wicking it’s heat upwards and spreading across the plains of calloused skin.

Hadrius pinches the flame and darkness ebbs from the corners.

The Lycan warlord’s nights are often filled with dark silence, a sort of emptiness that pulls him beneath the weight of slumber. He does not dream, but when he does they are far from pleasant.

Nightmares.

Unpleasant screams and incongruous cries that wick into the night air. Dismembered bodies. Heads that loll whilst semi-attached to skeleton wasted bodies, maggots that crawl from hollowed sockets where eyes should have been. He dreams of fires so hot they lick at the skin on his flesh, they burn the soles of his feet. He dreams of women with skins as pale as melted wax, clutching dead babies by their breasts, suckling on blood. He sees their sons face down in a serpentine river of blood that sources from Mount Olympus.

And then he sees the figure.

Cloaked in black, sitting on his throne of bones. At his feet lies dogs, hell hounds summoned from the pits of tartarus.

The figure would raise his head and circuit with his own stare, and then he would smile - an inhuman shift of his mouth that curls at the corners into something short of a Cheshire smile.

“Fetch.”

The dream would never complete itself.

Hadrius would suddenly start up, and, closing his eyes, places his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared might escape to reality.

Daylight slants in streams of faint gold, lingering on specks of musty dust that rises and floats about idly. He releases a faint angry sigh and pushes his hand back into his hair which feels sodden from perspiration, the ribbon loosely hanging by the end.

Hadrius’ eyes finally open and he grows still as they meet another pair of dull hazel eyes that peer at him from above knees pressed against her chest.

The human.

Her presence had been so sudden and unexpected, Hadrius’ skin stirred dangerously and grew tensed, ready to strike the intruder down. He grabs a hold of his wolf from within, unable to stifle the smooth guttural growl that reverberates his chest.

The human only stiffens further, shaking like a white narcissus. She does not move, plaited hair pulled away from her young face. Her breathing is ragged, muffled by the knees which she presses her lower face into whilst watching him.

A moment passes as they watch another, neither willing to look away. One out of trepidation and caution, the other simply because he could.

Hadrius rises and makes for the bathroom, brushing past her form in disregard. He bathes from the bucket of cold water, a dull flicker of irritation at the realization that it should have been hot to begin with.

Did the mortal slave not know of her duties?

He assumed it would have been clear as a bowl of water as to what would be required of her; had the men not informed her? Was she not a slave to begin with? His scowl deepens further. Pulling on a clean fitting dress shirt and emporium dark trousers, Hadrius twists his damp hair up with a slice of elastic rubber then exists the room

The mortal, it seems, startles easily for she jumps in the slightest at the sound of his abrupt footsteps. She has not moved from the divan, this time her legs rest on the carpet, hands clasping by her knee which bobs anxiously.

Their gazes lock as his steps falter before her. Hadrius stills a moment, studying the crown of her head which shows as she lowers her own gaze in fear and deference.

“Every morning,” his strong sonorous voice causes her knee to bob even faster, “before I wake, I expect the bath water to be heated, evening as well.”

She nods.

“I do not wake with an appetite for breakfast, therefore you need not serve me then.” Another nod, “all evening meals will be eaten in the hall, you shall serve my men and I on time,” he pauses, scrutinizing her wiry arms with vague distaste, “you seem incapable of carrying food, therefore wine will be fine.”

“Laundry will be done per usual, I expect my room to be spotless by sundown when I return., I expect utmost candour from you at all times.” His boot clipped hard as he took a step towards her, “I do not expect to see you within my line of vision lest I have summoned you, you will not speak unless spoken to, you will refer to my men as honorably as possible. Do you understand?”

Another nod.

Hadrius pauses, licking the roof of his mouth thoughtfully. “If you have a question, you may speak.”

She cracks a knuckle, pink tongue darting out to circle her lips in contemplation. After a moment, her eyes finally rise to him.

She speaks very slowly, and the words seem wrung out of her almost against her will.“What shall I call you?”

Hadrius’ lips twitched with a spasm of distaste at being taken aback by her question. It was new to him, such dynamics of master and slave. Let alone a mortal one for all his caregivers had been of Lycan origin. He would have considered Beta as a suitable title, but those words were only used among pack members.

His lips press together indignantly, “Hadrius.” He decides.

The girl nods once as her eyes glaze over in inward reflection, she sucks in her lower lip and he watches the gesture somewhat oddly before turning away.

“Before I forget,” Hadrius halts by the doorway, his taut hard voice resembles the gaze that stiffly analyzes her body hidden beneath a hideous piece of long clothing. It did not matter, he had seen her nubile form.

“The nights I do not have females over,” he speaks as though it holds no meaning, a simple fact of life. “you will take their place.”