Every day the dark grey-green of the forest grew closer, and her tormentor did not return.

She had given up trying to lead Bu’u away from his path. The denimal would allow her to guide him off-course for a few minutes before tugging the reins from her grip and turning back towards the peaks, or match her desperate attempts to force him to her will by simply stopping and waiting until she tired. When she had tried walking away he would nuzzle and snuffle at her endlessly, herding her back towards the looming rise of mountains.

The nights were the worst. All were spent crying herself to sleep and waking up from the deceptive dreams of Apoch in the morning. How she had begun to despise them. Instead of soothing her like they once did, they only drove her further into a darkness that even Bu’u’s attention could not reach, and by the third morning she had quit trying to escape or force the denimal to change directions. She had also continued to deny herself the water ration, too.

There was only just to let the time roll over her like a thunderstorm.

When night fell Bu’u tamped down the grasses for their camp, and Iscah slid bonelessly from the saddle, pressing her palms against her eyes to try easing the ache from dehydration. Her physical wounds had all healed alarmingly fast now that she was off her feet, but it had done little for her thirst. Her tongue felt swollen in her dry mouth, her thoughts and reactions sluggish.

Bu’u’s attention swung up suddenly, and he trilled a greeting as Apoch stalked out of the darkness.

Iscah half turned to watch his approach from where she sat on the ground, noting how his gaze touched across her before acknowledging Bu’u.

This time when he opened the bulging water pouch, he let Bu’u drink his fill before handing her the remaining contents.

When she refused again he paused, grunting in annoyance as he pushed the waterskin against her arm demandingly. Iscah finally accepted it, but dropped it on the ground next to her, too fatigued to argue.

The air electrified with tension as he lowered into a crouch beside her, picking it back up and holding it out to her intentionally. As if he knew what she was trying to do.

Somewhere long ago she had read that a human could go without food for weeks, but only a matter of days without water. And somewhere along the way across the endless grasslands, she had decided there was no point continuing.

She was tied to a cambion male who despised her, yet it was obvious he would never let her go. Her life had spiraled completely out of her control, and this was the one way she could take it all back.

Simply end it. No more dreams, no more torment. Just a few more days of pain and surviving him and then she could close her eyes and never wake up again.

“Iscah, olorru,” he commanded, shaking the contents in explanation. When she turned her head away his patience snapped.

One minute she was sitting hugging her knees, the next he had her by the scalp so she couldn’t move her skull, pulling her back so her neck was pinned against his thigh. As she thrashed he bit the wax seal off and tipped the nozzle over her mouth, trying to get her to drink.

At the first splash Iscah froze, compressing her lips together and breathing heavily through the pain as she glared murder up at him. The precious liquid trickled unused down her chin and throat, soaking into the front of her grimy robes.

Apoch met her glare, though his fury was superfluous; internally he was relieved to see the belligerent streak of hers had returned. That he had not broken her spirit, that this tiny female a third of his weight could overcome her fear and still meet his eyes with defiance.

It was one thing to understand she was hurting, and had thought she could find answers in taking control this way. But she could not be allowed to continue down this path of self-harm. Her choices were now bound to him, and vice-versa for the time being.

Without being able to discuss it together, he weighed his options on how to overcome this issue. He could easily overpower her. Set his fingers to her cheeks and squeeze until her teeth cracked if she didn’t give in, but there was no joy in that for him. He could threaten her, put a knife to her throat and see if, when faced with death for real, she’d capitulate.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Either choice would only make her more terrified of him, and shatter what remained of her trust, if there was any left. No, he didn’t want to hurt her, didn’t want to break the little hellcat.

“You think this is rock bottom, little lamb?” Apoch crooned, voice rough as his attention wandered over her face, intrigued by the freckles now dusting her sun-bronzed cheeks and nose from the time in the sun. Her nostrils flared, breaths shallowing as he leaned in close enough that his lips brushed the corner of her mouth with every word he spoke.

“You have no idea what rock bottom is,” he whispered, hooded lids lifting to meet hers. Closer now, he could see the flecks of lighter azure threading through the midnight blue of her irises. Tilting his head he scraped his fangs feather-light across her chin, enjoying the way her whimper of fear sounded so much like her whimpers of pleasure.

Hurt and pain were two entirely different things, but pain? That could evolve into pleasure. After all, they were just two sides of the same coin. Just as her wildness could grow with guidance from him. And when it did…

He bent, laving the trail fluid off of her chin and down her throat, sucking at the small pool of it that had coalesced along her collarbone. At her gasp he shot back to her mouth, releasing the meager amount of sweat-tinged water he had lapped up over her clenched teeth. She squealed and tried to turn away, and he retreated to take a swig of water as she struggled feebly once more against the unyielding hold he had on her.

When he pressed his lips against hers again she locked up, refusing to budge. From inches away they glared at one another, until he set the bag against her hip and gripped her ankle instead.

Her eyes widened in alarm as his touch slid up, dragging the dress hem with it. He eased his hold on her hair so she could focus on the pleasure he was inciting, watching as her pupils blew wide when he palmed the muscles of her calf. As his fingertips brushed across the sensitive flesh behind her knee her breath grew ragged, and the sweetness of her arousal mixed with the sourness of her fear.

With a twist of his fingers in her hair he merged pain back into her senses. Her mewl was literally drowned as he took advantage of her distracted state, forcing his tongue past her teeth. The mouthful of water he had been holding flooded into hers, coating her gums and throat with relief, rolling his tongue against hers until she involuntarily swallowed his gift.

He pulled back, leaving her sputtering as she half choked on what she hadn’t downed.

Abandoning her knee he picked up the bag and offered it to her again. Her eyes flicked between his and the waterbag, and he could see her calculating his next move. How far he would push her, how long she could last.

In answer he tilted the nozzle to his lips, taking unhurried drags of water, her attention tracking instantly to his throat. Mesmerized she watched his adams apple work in tandem with the muscles and tendons exposed down a neck thicker than one of her legs.

When her gaze flicked back up to lock eyes with him once more he let his mask drop, baring his true thoughts. Let her see how much the sweet-and-sour smell of her fear and desire had affected him. Left him thirsting not for water, but what he could wring out of her instead. What he would take from her if she continued this little game he was enjoying playing with her that was taking such little effort on his part, but all of hers.

With the last mouthful unconsumed he set the bag back down and turned his full attention upon her again, hand curving around the outside of her knee and squeezing her pliant flesh before sliding it down towards her hip.

“Ok ok, I drin— I drink!” she croaked, snatching up the bag and adding what could only be curses directed at him in her language. He waited as she took a sip, growling when she paused and retaining his hold on her until she had consumed nearly a quarter of the bag.

When he let her go she scrambled away, clutching the container to her chest as if it would protect her. He grinned smugly in her direction, his abs flexing in silent laughter when she all but spat more coarse language at him.

Someday he would teach her to curse fluently in demaic, but for now listening to her rant in her native tongue was adorable. Leaving her to her wounded pride, he checked over Bu’u once more before collapsing onto his back in the nest of crushed grass, not bothering with a blanket. Within moments his breathing had evened out, and Iscah felt such a bitter hatred well up inside of her at the sight of him. Without thinking she crept to his side, ripping his dagger out of its sheath and resting the edge against his throat.

Beneath the veil of lashes he monitored her, not even attempting to defend himself or remove the threat of the weapon.

I could kill you now and end both of our miseries, Iscah seethed mentally. She gritted her jaw, fingers flexing around the hilt.

His brows rose, daring her to follow through with the threat. When she hesitated for too long he chuffed, rolling over to give her his stitched back brazenly, both knowing she didn’t have the fortitude to follow through.

She dropped the blade and curled up onto her side away from him, her angry hiss making him smile in amusement as he drifted to sleep.