Page 139 of The Fallen Fae King

But then, Freya bites me like she is determined to make me break, and I do.

“My Queen.” I hump into my hand and come in a dizzying rush of ecstasy.

I collapse forward.

Smiling, I close my eyes.

I slump against the wall, happy and relaxed for the first time since Freya visited me.

“Filthy creature,” Taran sneers. “I should have known that this is what you would spend your time alone doing. Vampires are sluts. From what I can tell, your kingdom does nothing but hold orgies, drink blood, and hunt. It’s why you are well suited for our games of pleasure and pain like whorish fae are.”

“Since they are your games, are you not telling on yourself?” Lazily, I open my eyes.

Giving in to my desires with Freya has always been dangerous. My obsession with her dulls my senses to everything else, even the approach of predators like Taran.

Taran places down his flickering oil lamp, which casts shadows across the walls.

Keys and a coiled whip hang from a sash around the middle of his black robes.

His sandy hair is tangled.

I smirk, imagining that he has been furiously batting moths out of it.

Taran’s light blue eyes cloud. “Wraith believes that we must not go too far in how we treat you because she is friends with the King. She made a deal with him. But I am Head of this Guild and I didn’t. Vic was my mentor. She took in a poor orphan boy, who would have otherwise starved on the streets, and trained me up. She gave me a purpose and my life meaning. But you killed her like she was nothing. I am going to make you regret every rat bite that she suffered.”

I make a show of smearing the pearly liquid off my hand on the front of my gladiator’s uniform, right over the breastplate’s dragon emblem.

Taran’s face reddens with fury.

“You look tired.” I cock my head, studying Taran’s soft face, which has become haggard in only two weeks of my loyal creature’s torments, and the fresh rashes on his neck. “Sleeping well?”

“I know that it’s you,” Taran roars, losing his last thread of control. “Monster.”

I smirk.

I knew that he would break first.

He fumbles for the keys at his waist, dragging open the cell door. Then he slams into the cell, yanking his whip from his belt.

He doesn’t need to tell me to stand and face the wall.

I turn, bracing my hands against the stone.

This has become a routine ritual between us.

I sigh, pulling my long hair around to the front to keep it out of the way of the lash.

By my heart, these dragons are unimaginative. They should have studied under Nebet or even my half-brother, Sobek.

They would have learned more creative punishments.

At the first swish, crack, then the burning slice across my shoulder blades, I don’t move.

I don’t cry out.

I don’t make a sound.

It is Taran who hisses in frustration. The next hit is harder.