by S. A. Parker
A Token’s Worth
Spawn Of Darkness
S. A. Parker
A Token’s Worth (Spawn of Darkness Series)
Copyright © S. A. Parker, all rights reserved.
This series is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to characters and situations is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Created with Vellum
Note to the reader
This is book one in the four-part Spawn of Darkness series, written from Dell’s perspective. It is a slow burn reverse harem romance with sensitive and taboo subjects, offensive language, sex slavery, explicit sexual content and violence; particularly as the series progresses. It contains subjective content which some readers may find triggering. Intended for an audience aged eighteen years and over.
Blurb
They like their women barren in more ways than one, void of the bits that make them anything other than an object of male desire. A woman doesn’t need her faculties, or her body in one piece to open her legs.
Dark, brutal, and punishing - this is the world Dell was brought up in. Nothing more than a Lesser Fae female, owned by a master who sells her body to the highest bidder and takes what’s left for himself. She’s been through it all. She’s witnessed it all. She’s survived it all … so far.
Dell unwittingly binds herself to the Sun Gods - four primal, territorial High Fae males who have a taste for power, pain, and pleasure. But they want more from her than she initially expected.
They can read, control and govern her body. They can see through her lies, sense the secrets she’s been cowering from for years. For Dell, the only thing worse than trying to survive the darkness, is the prospect of being dragged back into the light.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Spawn of Darkness Series
For Mum and Nana.
Thank you for showing me the true value of a woman’s worth.
Prologue
I could start my story anywhere, but I’ve decided to start it here. Mainly because it’s the beginning of … well, something.
It’s cruel and uncouth, a bit fucking raw. It’s the stuff people don’t talk about because it makes them feel dirty or exposed. But this is how the world is for some. For me.
Imagine being stripped down to the bare bones of your existence, only to reinvent yourself in a way you don’t recognise, or like. Would you hate yourself if you became a monster?
My life is certainly no fairy-tale. This is not a fairy-tale.
At times you’ll cringe, and despite yourself, at times you’ll get excited over my pain and suffering. Don’t worry, I won’t judge you. We’re all the same to some extent. I’m the same. Sometimes I get excited over my own pain and suffering. Call me broken, call me a monster, call me whatever the hell you want. In your perspective, you’ll be right.
But it’s normal. To someone. To me.
I want for things I’ll never have, and they aren’t your regular wants. They make me question my moral aptitude, though not all the time. I’m no saint. Just don’t analyse me because it’ll probably send you in circles.
Also, I swear a lot. Pre-warning. It’s a by-product of the way I see the world, and I see a lot of fucking. I do a lot of fucking. Not necessarily willingly.
That’s not to say I don’t enjoy it at times.
Welcome to the shit show that is my life. I’m not going to miss facts to protect your soul from the savagery. Sorry.
I hope you remember this apology later.
Chapter One
I’ve been taken against my will before, you’re an easy target when you have the mark plastered on your motherfucking palm. But this morning, when five men corner me down a side alley that’s usually void of people at this early hour, I’m not in the goddamn mood.
They’re caped in the stench of expensive whisky. I mark them all ... fuck-knuckle one to five.
My mind’s like a great big filing system. I forget nothing. Nothing. Sometimes, no … most of the time, it’s a curse. One I’m not sure how to cope with.
Fuck-knuckle one, tall with burly shoulders, plasters my body against the wall, hiking my skirt over my hips.
I should be used to being touched by unfamiliar hands. I’m not. It makes me feel filthy. Besides, this is not consensual. In fact, if we’re counting consensual sexual encounters, then fuck me, I’d still be a virgin.
It’s best to stay calm. They tend to beat you less when you’re calm. That, and there’s no point screaming for help. Nobody will come. Except to watch the free entertainment.
Instead I’m whimpering, and I just can’t seem to stop.
I barely recognise myself.
The bag of fruit I’ve been carrying drops to the ground, the apples and oranges scattering like the last threads of my composure. When he pushes himself inside me, I’m dry as a goddamn drought in there. Not that it slows him down. He thrusts into me, pulling my hair so hard I can’t close my mouth while the other four watch on, cocks in hand. Sadistic pricks.
The tiny part of me that enjoys this public exhibition is traitorous, but at the same time I’m relieved when my vagina finally comes to the party and creates her own moisture. Now it doesn’t hurt so much. Though it does little to salvage my crumbling mental composure.
The man inside me groans. “She’s wet, she’s enjoying it!” He thrusts harder as his hand comes around and gropes at the slickness between my legs.
I wish I could cry at times like this. Instead I’m screaming. Screaming for more.
I fucking hate myself for it.
Yet again, my body and mind are at war with each other.
It’s wrong in so many ways. But it’s me. It’s what I’m used to.
This is my fucked-up reality.
He swings me around, pushing me to my knees and skinning them in the process. Fuck-knuckle five forces a penis that tastes like it’s been languishing in his sweaty underpants for the past six months into my mouth. I reflex gag. He goes harder. “Take it, bitch! And keep those fangs in check!”
I could bite down anyway, but the punishment would be death by guillotine. I consider. Yeah, pretty fucking tempting.
I’m furious with my vagina when the orgasm almost tears me in half. She likes it rough, back stabbing bitch, and I swear it turns them all savage—all wanting to rip their own glory from me as well. Which they do.
My vagina may be having a party down there, but my mind’s scrambling for purchase. It was so much easier when I could switch off and let them get on with it. Now I’m all fucked up and I have no idea how to claw my way back.
I’m not sure when I pass out, have no idea if it stopped them. I think not because when I wake, sprawled along the ground and dangerously close to a puddle of piss, my rear end aches. Arseholes. Right now I’m glad I don’t have a uterus, because that would be some funky cocktail baby.
There’s a token in the dirt, payment for my services they didn’t ask to hire in the first place.
A single token.
Granted, it could buy the girls and me three loaves of bread every day for a month in these parts—something other than cum to fill our stomachs during the lon
g day shifts.
I stare at the token, smothered in filth, lying on the ground.
Not today.
I spit on it and leave it in the dirt.
Walking is difficult—I think I’m broken inside. Slowly, I make my way through town, trudging through mud, faeces, piss … passing other whores, faces caked in powder and rogue, coal staining their eyes and creating a semblance of beauty to cover the fact that they’re empty. Barren. Broken.
Caped in red—the damning colour of females—they hail men still drunk on last night’s juice into their whore lairs. Some of them even beam their tattered smiles while they’re at it.
I trudge through narrow streets plagued with deep shadows and crammed with dingy shops, derelict living quarters and whore houses. There’s an abundance of red washing hanging on the lines that zig zag across the barely visible sky; scarlet ghosts in the scarce morning light.
There’s no room to move in this town. Barely room to breathe.
I pass the shop that always smells like freshly baked scones no matter what time of the day it is. The scent reminds me of the comforts I once had.
I think of my mother.
I try not to think of the last time I saw her.
The air is brisk, pebbling my exposed skin and highlighting the many scars I’m marred with, turning them an odd shade of silver. I run the pad of my index finger over the one on the palm of my hand. The one I can’t escape from. Ever. The air I puff is milky white, but the cold is akin to the other sensations I’m feeling right now, crumbling my reinforcements I’d convinced myself were sturdy.
A man stumbles past, a whore at his side, his hand dancing up her skirt. He leads her towards a door, perhaps to a bed that’s nicer than the one she sleeps in regularly.
I see her fake smile, the disdain in her eyes.
She’ll likely enjoy the softness of his sheets—may even pretend he’s courting her so she can get off easier. Been there, done that. It leaves a bad taste in your mouth.
The air becomes thick as I pass through the fish market—churning with women too weathered for the vagina trade, up to their elbows in fish guts and gore.
Few spare me a second glance. The ones that do wield distant eyes, as though they’ve seen this before. Been in my position. They quickly avert their gazes, and I’m not offended. For them, it wouldn’t be worth the punishment. The loss of a limb, a public whipping …
Death.
A couple of dogs, flea ridden and skeletal, maul each other over a bone half buried in mud. The smaller of the two begins to mewl, backing away and bowing to the larger.
Lips pulled back, baring sharp teeth that drip with desperation, the victor walks past me—prize in jaw, headed for a narrow side alley where he can enjoy his meagre meal in peace. I spot the decomposing human hand dangling from the end of the bone.
I stop, ankle deep in filth, watching the dog feast on the remains of someone’s lost capabilities.
This is my life. This is my world.
My world.
I’ve had enough.
Chapter Two
It’s not until I near the cliff edge, the horizon fanning out before me, that I realise what I’m about to do. I can’t go back anyway … perhaps I’m just grasping at testicles here, but I left the apples and oranges I got from the pre-dawn market on the motherfucking footpath. Not that they would’ve stayed there long, but to go back without them would be a one-way ticket to the whipping posts. Fuck that. I’m not getting whipped for apples and oranges. Kroe’s had others whipped for less.
We’re just numbers to him, replaceable. Even though we pay the bills for his opulent lifestyle. All the customers need to do is slide into our cunts and Kroe gets a token for every ten minutes taken. We get a roof over our head, though it’s best not to get attached to the other girls at the establishment. They come in as quickly as they go out, for one reason or another. Some reasons far more sinister than the guillotine.
Often the mind deteriorates faster than the body. Exhibit A.
We keep each other warm at night, it’s a nice comfort and it gives us a small sense of belonging and sisterhood. The rest of the time I barely acknowledge them, even in secret. Instead, I have internal conversations with my vagina. She’s an interesting confidant, though not always sensical.
I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not that crazy; just fucking repressed, like all the women these days.
Not that any of that matters now.
When I kneel on the grassy band at the edge of the cliff, I wince at the biting sensation, certain there’s gravel buried in the fleshy cuts. I don’t care enough to inspect them.
Life wasn’t always so vicious for females—a girl whispered something similar to me once, before she was beheaded publicly for speaking ill of our lot in life. Perhaps her vagina wasn’t very conversational because she just couldn’t keep her mouth shut. Instead, she trusted all the wrong people, an unforgiving lesson not to speak ill of our Lord Almighty, King of the World, bringer of fuckery, arsehole extraordinaire and his pure white fucking feathers.
The waves crashing against the rocks below echo my tumultuous mind as my hair whips at me from all angles. I hate this pain in my fucking heart.
It’s this moment, when the sun peaks over the horizon and night begins its subtle fade to day, that words of an ancient tongue come to mind. I’m not sure how I know them, nor do I know what they mean, which is strange because I remember everything. Nonetheless, I speak these words to the dawn, as the new day begins to rouse from night’s embrace.
“Gleitz adorn, de mel te heist. Sevana ta lein.”
My skin prickles and a sudden wave of heat washes over my body. I curl over, gasping for air. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck begin to rise—something shuffles behind me …
I straighten, turn, and freeze.
This is not my fucking day.
My insides coil with dread, my lungs forgetting how to process air momentarily. I’d bang them back into action, but my arms are hanging at my sides like a couple of limp dicks at an orgy. Useless.
Standing before me are three immortal, High Fae males. My vagina bows, but I do no such thing, even though I recognise these men from artistic depictions and verbal embellishments. They’re donned in gleaming metallic god gear and wearing an air of bravado.
Rightly speaking, I should be kissing their feet right now.
Dawn, Night, and Day—three of the four Sun Gods, second only to our overriding King. Though apparently, the Sun Gods are just as sinister as our savage Lord Almighty, which means I’m probably about to have penises plugged into my every available orifice then be chopped into bite sized pieces and thrown to the megalodon’s. Not that they would struggle with eating me whole, but that’s not the point. The point is, I’m fucked.
I bare my canines, then instantly catch myself, reining the bastards back in before the Gods take it upon themselves to yank them out for my feral insubordination. Kroe did that to a girl once, it wasn’t pleasant to watch.
They look at each other with confused expressions, then back at me.
“You summoned, and we came,” Day states, with a hard gleam in his eye.
I … what?
Night snickers. “Came …”
Day gives him a filthy sideways glance. “Really?”
Night shrugs. “That’s the best you could come up with after two hundred and fifty years of wish drought? ‘You summoned, and we came’?” Night impersonates Day’s deep voice.
Day clears his throat, squaring his broad, throw-my-legs-over-while-he-fucks-me, shoulders. I internally slap my face. Shut up, vagina. Keep your thoughts to yourself.
Dawn cocks a brow.
I stare at them, confused, and not wanting to speak because I’d likely lose three limbs instantly. They’d probably just magically fall off. What an existence that would be. Kroe would sit me on a specially designed chair and let men fuck me all day, every day. I’d probably die choking on a penis. What a shit way to go.
“You can speak, mortal,” Dawn drawls, his gaze branding me.
Wow. Okay, I can speak. That’s … not what I was expecting. “What are you all doing here?” I croak, because it’s a valid question. They’re immortal. High Fae. What’s more, they’re fucking gods! This land of squalor and poverty is for the mortals—lesser beings. People like me.
They look at each other and shake their godly heads, apparently not getting it. That’s unfortunate—obviously their brains don’t amass to the impressive packages they appear to have between their legs. Not that I’m looking, of course, even though my vagina’s trying to wiggle out to catch a peep, but those leather god pants peaking through the armour leave very little to the imagination.
Day answers. “You called upon us for a wish? With the ancient words we thought were lost to the world?”
I stare at him, eyebrows raised. What the fuck is he on about?
“You would usually only get one of us?”
I shake my head. Nope, no clues.
He sighs, and Night intervenes. “You just happened to reach us right on the crossover from night to day, and smack in the middle of dawn. It’s a grey area, so we’ve all been summoned.” He glances at the other two. “Until they fuck off, anyway.”
Day sneers at him. “Watch yourself, Night. Last I checked you were losing some of your touch. That’s what happens when you spend your days fucking and not training.”
Ouch.
“That’s not why I’m losing my touch and you know it. We’re all losing it, you included, arsehole.”