A Lover's Worth (Spawn of Darkness Book 3)

by S. A. Parker

“You guys have your fun with her first,” he drawls, twirling the key to the padlock between fat, dirty fingers. “I want to watch you all fuck her, but I get the rights to end the cunt.” He flicks his hair from his face, looks me square in the eye and winks at me, before putting the key in his mouth and swallowing it.

  Well …. fuck. It tells me enough about how long they intend to keep me in here for—until he passes that key out his arsehole, that’s how long.

  My head sways to the side as I fight to keep consciousness, though I’m vaguely aware of the tall man with thick brows stepping forward, pushing my thighs open and prodding at the warmth between my legs. He loosens his trousers, dropping them to his knees, and reveals a hard, spindly cock. He hauls at my body, flipping me around, causing the binds holding my wrists to tighten. My face slaps against the sodden, chilling wall when he rams his dick straight into my unsuspecting vagina.

  I scream, the muffled sound reverberating about the room.

  I claw at my beast lying huddled within me, begging her to do something, anything.

  She doesn’t. Instead, she coils further into a ball, cowering under the scornful gaze of the man who beat me close to death then left his mark inside my body.

  My vagina’s unresponsive … she now knows what it’s like to be treated properly, knows where she belongs, and it’s not here with these bastards.

  This is the world I live in.

  I’m always going to be seen as this—a chew toy for men to gnaw on. Nothing’s going to change unless someone does something about it. Unless someone fights for the rights of the ones who no longer have a voice. But I’ve missed my chance. It’s a devastating reality that claws at my insides, works its way up my throat, and threatens to choke me.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to take myself somewhere else, anywhere else … and fail. I bellow my frustrations into my gag, knowing I’m stuck here both physically and mentally.

  I don’t even have my vagina to talk to, to give me some semblance of false companionship …

  I am alone.

  Utterly alone.

  I coil, gagging; trembling hands clutching my abdomen. There’s nothing like a steel capped boot to the gut to remind you that even immortals have fragile ribs.

  The noises that escape my body with the impact are far from discreet, though I see no point in keeping quiet.

  Their intentions are clear.

  They want me dead.

  I close my eyes … breathe Dell, breathe.

  I don’t notice the boot careening towards my temple until it’s too late.

  Darkness.

  A flicker of light.

  My limp body being flipped over, onto my side …

  Darkness.

  “Are you right or left-handed, Little Pet?” The words are watery, splintered, malicious.

  Coming to from the shaded haze of my semi-conscious state, I look up at my newest torturer from where I’m sprawled on the ground.

  This one’s new. He hasn’t had a go at me yet.

  His face is in shadow—eyes appearing black. Despite the harrowing darkness shading his features, the spattering of freckles across his nose and baby face make him look anything but cruel. But looks can be deceiving.

  “I said …” he slaps his hand across my cheek, drawing me further from the haze. “Left, or right?”

  I groan something non-committal into my gag.

  “What was that?” He tugs the material out of my mouth with fingers that smell like a rotten arsehole. “I didn’t quite catch it.”

  Cheek pressed against stone stained in piss, my hair sapping at the moisture like a thirsty sponge, I work my mouth around thin air—stretching my tongue, my jaw—trying to talk. My throat is raw, and all that comes out is a raspy groan.

  “Get the bitch something to drink,” the man mumbles around a cruel smirk, his canines glinting in the flickering light from the hearth. Dark shadows stretch and twist across the walls.

  Most of the men are huddled around the small fire, enjoying a snack while they watch the show unfold. One of them groans, stretches, stands, and makes his way to the bucket in the corner. After scooping water into a ladle, he loiters over to us, dribbling precious liquid onto the floor in his wake.

  Bastard’s not even making an effort to keep the ladle steady.

  My matted hair clings to my fevered face, and I curl my arms unnaturally to try and coax the pee-soaked tendrils out of my mouth, with little success.

  Baby face pulls me into a kneeling position, grabbing the only chair in the room and perching it in front of me, placing my bound hands in the centre of the seat.

  The message is clear.

  My arse is not worthy enough to sit in the fucking chair.

  The man with the ladle rounds on me, ruddy eyes shadowed and his lips thin with distaste.

  I’m practically drooling over the scent of clean water.

  “Thirsty?” he asks, a curious lilt tainting his voice.

  I nod.

  He tilts my chin so I’m looking into his pallid face. “Well then, open wide.”

  I do, then watch him sniff back and hurl a thick, green wad of saliva into the ladle—eyes dancing with amusement—right before he pours the contents into my mouth.

  It only makes it part way down my throat before I’m throwing it back up, into my lap, all over the wooden chair that’s keeping me from toppling over.

  Spent, gasping for breath, mouth tainted with bile; I curl against the chair, head slung low.

  Baby Face pinches my cheek, drawing my attention back to him with a flick to my ear. “Right, or left-handed, Pet?”

  He has a look in his eyes that suggests withholding the answer would be a very bad idea.

  “Both,” I grind out, and the bastard straight up beams.

  The one with the ladle leans against the wall, arms folded, smiling.

  “Well, then …” Baby Face purrs, hauling at my bound hands and pressing them against the seat of the chair. “Sit up nice and straight now, on your knees … I want you poised and perky as you take your punishment.”

  He almost makes it sound nice. Like I have something to look forward to.

  Slowly, I rise, manoeuvring my body into the position he instructed, against the screaming protest of my knees teetering on the cobbled floor.

  “Back straight,” he says, sculpting my spine, forcing me into position. “That’s better.” He moulds my hands, pressing them flat against the seat. I wince when he runs his ringer over the bite on my right palm, making it ooze a yellow substance that smells septic …

  “Ambidextrous, aye … a rare talent, that.”

  My heavy eyes are so busy studying the bite on my hand that I jump at the sight of the nail kissing the tip of my right index finger … and it takes longer than it usually would for me to register exactly what’s about to happen.

  The Feather Plunger chuckles from his spot sitting in the corner. His back’s against the wall, canines gleaming while he sharpens his blade on a rock perched between his thighs. “You going to do both hands, brother?”

  The hair shading his eyes makes him look utterly terrifying.

  A predator.

  My beast straight up quivers, despite my relentless efforts to drag the bitch out. It’s like she’s gone all limp dick on me.

  Baby Face smirks, luring my gaze that’s no longer seeking the haze of slumber, instead, wide the hell awake. He produces a hammer out of fucking nowhere, flicks it into the air, and drives the flattened head at the nail—splitting through fragile bone and sending blood splattering at my face.

  I scream so loud it feels like my throat is shredding, my blood mottled arm trembling in shock, pivoting on the point where I’m now anchored to the chair.

  Don’t move.

  Don’t move.

  Chest heaving, I breathe through my nose; deep, shuddering breaths, trying to control my erratic movements …

  Baby Face rounds on me, running his hand up my spine and forcing me back into position. �
�I’ll alternate, one for each hand, until she learns to keep her back straight like a good little whore.”

  Goddammit.

  God-fucking-dammit.

  He jingles a pouch, the sound of nails clinking against each other making my skin crawl. He reaches in and pulls out a long, thin one, placing the tip at the centre of my left pinkie’s fingernail. “Don’t forget to keep your posture in check like a good Lesser slut.”

  He raises the hammer.

  A frightened gurgle slips past my lips.

  I picture a rod strengthening my spine, keeping me still …

  With a feral roar, he slams the hammer down. Another explosion of pain engulfs my body as the nail plunges through my finger and embeds deeply into the seat.

  My body crumbles, back arching, stomach heaving at its meagre contents.

  “Tut tut.” Baby Face splays his palm across my spine. “Looks like we have to try that again.”

  No …

  “Someone put the gag back in her mouth so I don’t have to listen to the bitch whining,” Feather Plunger drawls.

  I shake my beast, pawing at her, pleading with her to wake the fuck up! To do something, anything to help …

  Nothing.

  Fucking nothing.

  My bonds are snipped, and I’m thrown across the room, landing in a groaning heap of bloodied limbs and tarnished skin; my curls spewing about me in tangled disarray.

  The festering wound on my hand is oozing a thick, putrid puss that’s no longer yellow … it’s got a slight green tinge to it now.

  I slowly remove the sodden gag from my mouth with tender, trembling fingers—flicking it aside and sucking an unhindered breath.

  I’ve been here for days … my only guide being that they all slept at least once, in front of the crackling fire, in-between sessions of filling me or beating me bloody. This time, they haven’t avoided my face.

  They’ve all had me several times, except the one who’s actually had me before, who’s been content to sit and watch my torture from his place against the wall, sharpening his blade. It’s him I’ve been dreading the most. I know how he fucks, and he’s not gentle about it.

  I crack a half-swollen lid to see the object of my fractured thoughts stretch his arms dramatically, crack his back one way then the other, then pull his shirt over his head revealing a porcelain body rolling with muscle, and two gnarly scars staining his shoulder blades.

  Shoulder blades which used to be the roots of his amputated wings …

  He reaches into one of the sacks, rummaging around. Many things have come out of those sacks; chains, whips, apple jam sandwiches, even a fucking tea set. They sat around and sipped a fruity, herbal blend while watching one of them repeatedly shoot his load through my hair.

  I guess everyone has their kinks.

  He pulls out a carrot, a branding iron, and a fucking hacksaw. I scream, a thin, wailing gurgle. I think I’m about to lose a limb or four.

  He stands, pushes past a few men perched by the fire—nursing satiated grins—then stabs the branding iron into the flames, making sparks explode and embers crackle.

  Fuck.

  Spinning, he twirls the blade in one hand while he chews on the carrot in the other. “My turn,” he spits around a mouthful of orange confetti. His eyes crinkle at the sides confirming his sick satisfaction, and he tosses the remainder of the carrot at the wall. It shatters, leaving carrot gravel scattered across the ground.

  I try to scramble away, dragging my wasted body along the cobblestones, tearing at my skin as I back into a corner.

  “Scared, Poppet?” He tugs on one of my legs, running the blade along the inside of my thigh, but not applying enough pressure to cut me. “You should be.” He moves that blade to my clit, sneering. “Once I’m done fucking you, I’m going to carve your cunt clean off.” He applies a little pressure and I temper my compulsion to gag.

  Not my vagina … she’s helped me so much through the years. She doesn’t deserve to be scalped and slain.

  “Then I’m going to serve it on a pretty platter for your Sun Gods to mull over, reminding them that they aren’t that fucking powerful after all.”

  Tears spill, forging a path down my cheeks.

  He drags me out of the corner by my ankles, my already ruined flesh catching on the uneven ground, and flips me onto my front, forcing my legs apart and tossing the blade to the side. He tugs my hips up into the air, coaxing me onto my hands and knees. “If you move,” he purrs, “I’ll slice your twat off while you’re still alive. Got it?”

  Years of conditioning has me nodding, though I can’t stop the gurgled whimper from escaping my trembling lips while my beast cowers into a tight, quivering ball.

  I’ve never seen her so frightened.

  His boots thump along the ground and I hear the grind of metal against stone while he jostles the branding iron through the flames.

  Snot dribbles from my nose and my tears continue to flow. My knees tremble with the effort to keep me in place, my ruined fingers throbbing … screaming their displeasure at being pressed against the filthy, blood smeared ground.

  I know what’s coming when his footsteps thump closer—my entire body trembling, muscles coiling, bracing myself for what I’m about to endure.

  He presses the scalding iron to my right arsecheek. I choke—a blinding, searing pain assaulting my body, the potent scent of sizzled flesh staining my nostrils.

  Limbs crumbling beneath me, I drop to the floor.

  I hear the clatter of iron hitting stone.

  “Stupid bitch. Now we have to try again. Up!” He boots me in the ribs. I struggle to my hands and knees, body trembling, a string of thick saliva dribbling from my heaving mouth.

  “Do that again and I’ll brand your face. Understand?”

  I nod, focusing on the cobbled floor covered in moss, stained red with my blood. I count the cobbles in my mind—one, two, three …

  He presses the iron to the same arsecheek and I breathe and count, breathe and count, concentrating on the gurgle of air fighting through snot and blood. The hiss of iron on skin is merely background noise as the reek of burning flesh thickens like a suffocating smog. I don’t remember the pain being this brutal when I was last introduced to a branding iron.

  When he finally pulls away, I don’t have to look to know he’s branded me with a giant fucking circle … just like the one that used to be present on my right palm.

  A branded whore.

  Only worth what pleasure my body can provide.

  He tosses the branding iron to the side and pulls himself free of his pants, already rock fucking solid. He fists at it and through my bleary fog of pain, I notice the small bead of pre-cum on the tip of his cock.

  This guy is one sick fuck.

  “You like the look of my hard cock? It’ll be the last one you ever have, you know. You’ll die knowing it was my cock that stained the insides of that tight little pussy with my cum.”

  I scream, blinking away swiftly flowing tears, scrambling to get away but succeed only in curling into a quivering ball … just like my beast.

  He tugs my legs open and lines himself up with my entrance.

  The only way through this is to protect my mind …

  I close my eyes and think of Sol, of our lovemaking still fresh in my memory …

  A shiver runs up my spine.

  Oh … no …

  I’ve made a mistake …

  A big.

  Fucking.

  Mistake.

  I feel the buds of my wings begin to pierce through the muscles in my back, and I just can’t stop them. They’re excited to see their non-existent Day God, and I have no control over the tarts.

  Perhaps I should’ve been practising that rather than collecting glowing, metallic heart tethers.

  Idiot.

  They’re going to be so disappointed when they realise they popped out for these bastards, and not our dashing Sun God.

  They unfurl—their crisp, white feathers a s
tark contrast to the darkness of the small room smeared with blood.

  On cue, I hear a gasp and the bastard straddling me launches off, taking shuffled steps back and colliding with the others. The few who were asleep are jostled awake by the crew of slack faced sickos.

  “Fuck,” one of them exclaims, rubbing at his face, perspiration filming his brow.

  “Not fucking possible,” the Feather Plunger chokes out, his desperate gaze darting to the brand on my arse, and back at my face.

  He knows he’s fucked up.

  The room becomes still, the only sound that of my wings, rustling about in confusion.

  Feather Plunger’s watching me, eyes slits, his expression one of uncertainty. His gaze drifts to the hacksaw, cast aside, lying on the bloodied ground.

  Fuck.

  No.

  He looks back at me with a feral sneer, his eyes glazing over, his expression one of grim determination. He stoops, picks up the hacksaw, and raises his arm … the serrated blade glinting with flickering light from the angry flame in the hearth.

  No …

  Not again. Not my fucking wings …

  I very nearly plead with him, almost kiss his filthy boots while I beg for him to show them mercy.

  They don’t deserve this. They’re sweet, innocent, and fragile. They’re everything that’s good in this world, while I’m everything that’s not … darkness plagued in shadow, the stain of a society gone wrong.

  We’re an odd mix, but we fit perfectly together. Strangely. I can’t bear to part with them again … not even in death.

  My wings coil and flap in a pathetic, vain attempt at escape. They may have been four-year-old wings when they last came face to face with a hacksaw, but that probably feels like yesterday to them, and I guarantee they have the same fucked up memory I have, because they’re quivering.

  “Please, no … don’t take my wings,” I sob, scrambling, skinning my knees further, pushing him away with flailing, bloodied hands. “Anything, please, anything but them!”

  He grips a wing, holding it firmly. I see the terrible glint in his eyes as he drives the saw against the sensitive skin at my wing’s base. The same place Kal massages to bring me to orgasm …

  It makes the bone splintering blow that much harder to swallow.