Ravage

by Tillie Cole

  She watched me in fear. My eyes stayed locked on hers as I moved from that breast and traced along her tan skin, over her wet hair, to the other breast. The female’s white mists of breath increased in speed as I gave her right breast the same attention as the left. Her skin erupted with millions of tiny bumps. Yet she still didn’t break. Her body didn’t move even though I could shock her at any moment. And her strong gaze never swayed from mine.

  Alight with challenge, I moved the prod to her sternum again. But this time, I began steering it south. I ran the prod down her torso, over her stomach, and stopped just above her pussy. Her hands flexed at her sides. Once more I cocked my head to the side in interest.

  It was the first time she’d moved since I’d begun my exploration. Her steely dark eyes didn’t drop from mine, but they began to fill with water. Glancing down to where the picana had stopped, I forced myself to ignore the ache in my stomach as I looked at the short black hair on her pussy. Meeting her gaze again, I lowered the prod until the tip of metal ran through the top of her short hair. Her lips trembled. Then I knew. I read her perfectly: she had never been touched by a male.

  Excitement surged through me—her weakness had been found.

  Dipping the prod lower, I ran the metal over the apex of her thighs, and the bitch’s breathing changed. It was shaky, and her hands were fisted at her sides. I stopped moving the prod and demanded, “Your name. What is your name?”

  She swallowed. She opened her mouth and tried to speak, but nothing came out. I moved the prod’s tip toward her folds and she cried out. She didn’t like it; that I could tell. Now she was scared. Fear was spreading all over her pretty Georgian face.

  But then she shocked me again. “Elene Melua!” she managed to call out through a thick throat. Her voice was weak, yet determined not to give in.

  But with that final lie, I broke.

  Ripping the picana back, I pointed it to the left corner of the cage. “Stand against the bars.”

  The female sucked in a breath and flicked her gaze behind her, then back on me. I tilted my head just daring her to defy me. Her self-preservation won out, and she scurried to the corner as ordered. I slammed the picana against the bars. The loud clang of metal on metal rung through the bars. I watched as the female braced for the expected electric shock. Her body froze, her muscles tensed, but the shock never came. When the sound calmed, I coldly smiled into her terrified eyes.

  Pressing the button to ignite the picana’s current, I moved to send it through the bars but then last minute pulled it back. And I did it over and over and over again, over hours, toying with her mind. The female panted harshly as she braced each time for the pain. But it didn’t come; instead her exhaustion from the anticipation finally brought her to her knees.

  “Get up!” I ordered. The female was panting on the floor, her skin paling, but she pushed herself to her feet. Her body was swaying from side to side with tiredness, but her sunken large eyes defiantly met mine.

  The challenge was set.

  Snapping the lock on the cage, I wrenched open the door. Fisting the picana at my side, I ordered, “Get out!”

  The female dropped her head. Her shoulders sagged slightly, but she put one shaky foot in front of the other and stopped beside me. This close, I towered over her. She was smaller than Mistress, at least half her size. Her skin was dark against my pale form. It was soft against my ink and rough scars.

  My jaw clenched as I fought the need to touch her. Fought against the urge to stop her pain. But I couldn’t; 152’s face in my mind forced me to keep going.

  Pointing the picana to the upright metal slab in the center of the room, I growled, “Stand against it.” She glanced up at me, anxiety racking her now-pale face. I stepped closer, so close that my hard chest brushed up against the cold skin of her arm. I caught her sharp intake of breath at the contact, and a jolt of fire raced down my spine. I schooled my confusion as to why.

  Her skin bumped again. My muscles jerked at how affected she had become in my proximity. Leaning down, catching her stiffen, I placed my mouth at her ear and whispered threateningly, “I said. Fucking. Move. Georgian.” I leaned back just a fraction, my powerful, scarred body looming over her.

  I knew I had her now. I could practically feel her fear filling the room. This would be where she cracked. This would be where she spoke.

  Then, shocking me to hell, her tiny foot took a step toward the metal slab. Frustration immediately swept through me. And just as she took another slow step, I threw my arm out in front of her face, my hand gripping one of the metal bars of the cage. The female gasped in shock, grinding to a halt. Leaning down, I ran my nose along the curve of her neck over her damp hair, feeling her trembling where she stood.

  There, I thought. I’d found another weakness.

  Me.

  This ugly beast’s unwanted touch.

  My nose ran up and down, up and down. Her breathing was ragged; her body shook. My closeness was tearing down the walls of her bravado. But as I inhaled, I fumed when I responded to her scent—sweet and addictive.

  Attractive.

  Without letting myself think, I pressed my body against her side. My chest brushed against her arm, and my hips set against her hip. The female suddenly froze, and when I glanced down my long hard cock was pressing against her side. As I saw the flush race up her cheeks, my teeth scraped over my bottom lip. Then my hips pushed forward, my dick under my sweatpants now flush against her thigh. My hand tightened against the bar at the feel of her against me, and I leaned down to her ear once more and repeated, “Your name?”

  Her body jumped, trapped between the cage and me. Yet, even wrapped in nothing but fear, she opened those big lips and stuttered, “E—Elene M—Melua.”

  I stilled, and the iron bar creaked under my equally iron grip. Blinking, I snapped out of the feeling of her body up against mine and wrenched back my arm. The female flinched at my sudden movement. My jaw clenched and, taking the prod, I hammered it against the bars and barked, “Move!”

  She rushed forward. She didn’t look back as she kept her head down and hurried to the metal slab.

  I watched her go, my gaze drifting down to her round ass. My muscles stiffened at the sight and I forced myself to lift my head. The female stopped just beside the slab. Rolling my shoulders, I took the prod and approached where she stood. Standing directly in front of her, I placed the prod on her stomach. She flinched. She still expected to be shocked. That was what I wanted—to completely fuck with her mind. I wanted her guessing when the next jolt of pain would strike. I pushed the tip of the prod against her skin and commanded, “Step back four paces!”

  The female did exactly as I said. Looking up, I saw she was directly under the showerhead above. Reaching out to the lever on the wall at her side, I yanked it down, and a spray of ice-cold water covered her tiny frame.

  She cried out and gasped for air as the water drenched her skin. Waiting until she was fully immersed, I pulled the lever and moved forward until I could slam my hand down on the hard metal slab behind her.

  I waited for her to react, but when she tried to lift a foot she fell to the floor, the cold seizing her muscles. I tensed as she fought to get back on her feet, her long hair draping over her face so much that I couldn’t see her expression. Her body convulsed at the cold. I watched her put a trembling hand on the floor, trying to move, but her body simply wouldn’t work.

  A slice of pain slammed through my chest. Coughing, I tried to clear the ache that had taken hold of me. My hand clenched at my side as I fought against the need to help her. The need to lift her and save her—like I wanted to save 152.

  Then came the following rush of anger, anger that I’d felt anything for this little Georgian at all. I was trained to resist empathy. I was trained to switch off from feeling anything at all.

  Right now that training was failing.

  Don’t feel sorry for her, I told myself. She’s a Georgian suka. This suka stands between you and your
kill. This suka, alive and surviving, sends 152 away to Master. No one else matters but 152. Nothing else matters but setting her free.

  Clinging to that thought, I bent down, wrapping my hand around her arm. She tensed under my hold, but I picked her up and held her against the slab. Stowing the picana to the side, I shackled her wrists and ankles to the attached metal cuffs. Standing back, I stared down at her strapped to the slab. Her thick long hair was still covering her face and chest. Moving forward, I brushed the wet hair back until all of her body was exposed. As her chest was revealed up close for the first time, I let my eyes roam.

  When they abruptly stopped.

  Three wide scars, looking like patched-up holes, stood proud on her skin—one under her shoulder, one on her left waist, and one just above her left hip. The female’s stomach was quickly rising and falling, drops of water turning to ice on her skin. When I looked up to her face, the skin was pale and her lips were turning blue, with the skin beginning to crack.

  But those eyes, those fucking dark eyes of hers, were still watching me. Only this time there was no water filling them. They were staring straight through me, glazed.

  Knowing she was at the brink of collapse, I moved to the opposite side of the bed and took hold of the fan and heater, positioning them at the front of her wet naked body. Flexing my wrist, as I held my hand over the cold air fan’s switch, I asked, “Tell me your name.”

  She stared at me blankly. She didn’t react. After several seconds, her mouth dropped open and with her eyes still glazed she managed to whisper, “Elene Melua. Kazreti, Georgia.”

  Closing my eyes, and with that traitorous sympathetic ache flaring back in my chest, I switched on the fan and smothered her smooth wet skin with the coldest of air.

  6

  ZOYA

  I didn’t think it was possible to feel any more pain. My skin had gone from feeling on fire, to as if it were being ripped apart by razor blades, to nothing but numbness with the deliberately changed temperatures I’d endured over the last couple of hours—torturous heat, swiftly followed by unbearable cold. I tried to wrench my arms and legs free as the pain ripped through me, but the cuffs wrapped around them made that impossible.

  I gritted my teeth, suppressing the scream in my throat from slipping out of my lips. My back arched. My fingers and toes became rigid. But my eyes never moved from the man who stood before me. The monster who had returned today with piercing crystal blue eyes. Gone were dilated black eyes, and in their place were intense blue pools. A deceivingly beautiful feature on a man so cruel.

  He watched me now as the heat caused my skin to sweat, and I could see in his blank stare that my pain and my suffering made no impact on his heart. He was huge, severely scarred and muscled, and the most frightening thing I had ever seen.

  My body continued to jerk and jump as the effects of the changing temperatures. But I watched my captor. I never removed my arms, suddenly confused when, on occasion, his eyes would tighten in the corners as though he felt discomfort in causing me pain. His hands would ball at his sides, as though they were fighting the urge to turn off the heater or cold air fan.

  As the hours rolled on, I wondered if I was simply imagining it, but it was there: an element of empathy or remorse.

  Maybe this heavily scarred monster had feelings after all.

  Since I had arrived in this chamber of hell, since this man had made me strip, I felt my innocence tearing to shreds. I had never been with a man. But he had bared me. He had touched my naked skin, he had run his nose along my neck, and he had pressed himself against my naked flesh.

  Yet something was different between this man and the one from last night. Last night, his blue eyes were dilated and blown. His body was taut, as if filled with anger and rage. Last night, the man was coldly cruel and violent. He gave his instructions like he had no choice. Like something deep inside was making him do these despicable things.

  This version of the man had knowing eyes. His movements were not so strained, definitely more fluid. And his eyes? His eyes today were bright and filled with the most amazing blue color. And he knew exactly what he was doing. The way he watched me. The way he smelled me. He teased and tested my endurance. It was all him. This version of the monster was very much in charge of his own actions.

  This version of the man terrified me like I’d never been terrified before—he knowingly made me scream. Yet despite this, I could see a flare of humanity in his stare.

  Last night, there had been none.

  The monster turned off the heater, my head dropping with exhaustion. He stepped closer and leaned down, his musky scent of dark spices blanketing my face. As before, his nose tucked into the crook of my neck, the tip of his nose dusting below my ear. It ran down and back up my tender skin, until his warm breath stopped at my ear and he whispered, “How do you know Zaal Kostava?” His voice was soft, almost convincing me into thinking he felt a morsel of regret. Then I remembered his balled fists and tight eyes and wondered if he did.

  He repeated the question again and made all the blood drain from my face. My eyes slammed shut. Whether I wanted to or not, a tear escaped the corner of my eye. I knew he had felt the droplet. When my eyes reopened, I saw he had captured the droplet on the pad of his finger.

  I kept my mouth closed, holding back the answer to his question. He lifted the finger holding the drop. Making sure I tracked his movements, he brought the droplet to his mouth, and flicking out his tongue, he then wrapped his lips around the digit.

  Slowly, he pulled his finger from his mouth and lowered it, until it landed on my chest. Even the featherlight touch of his finger felt like the stab of a dagger to my sensitive skin. But he kept it moving, until it ran over my breast and circled the wet tip around my nipple.

  My breathing hitched at the fear of not being able to move, at the fear of what he would next. I knew he was pushing me for an answer, testing my resolve. Avto had told me what torturers could do. However, learning of such acts and enduring them were not even comparable.

  Fluttering my eyes closed, I tried to take myself away from the here and now. I instead pictured the meadow when I was a child. I remembered Zaal and Anri walking side by side as I hid behind a tree, watching my two brothers smiling as they talked. I remembered my grandmama rocking me in her arms as she sang me her favorite song. I remembered my papa buying me whatever it is was that I asked for. I remembered lying with my mama, her stroking my hair as my baby brother and sister slept in their cribs. And I pictured Zaal, my sykhaara now. I held the image of his photograph, smiling and in love.

  Inhaling through my nose, I finally pictured Zaal’s fiancée in the window of the house in Brighton Beach. I saw his hands wrapped around her waist. And she was happy. The house seemed full of such happiness. My sykhaara, after a life of pain, had finally found happiness. He had found another family. That was all that mattered.

  Steely resolve settled over my soul; I vowed to never betray him. I would not heel to this monster. No matter what he tried.

  Then when I opened my eyes, I took in the size of my captor, the scars, the tattoos, the collar around his neck … the collar resembling that of a slave, and my face blanched. I replayed what Avto had told me about Zaal and Anri, that they had been captured and drugged. Experimented upon until they were like beasts, monsters, ghosts of who they once were. Forced to kill and fight for Jakhua. Then I pictured Zaal’s tattoos on his arms, tattoos not too dissimilar from this man’s, and I wondered if he was the same. He wanted my brother. My brother who had recently killed the man who had experimented on him as a child.

  A man whose people could still want revenge. A man who might have had more than just my brothers under his control.

  What if…?

  As I lifted my eyes to meet his, my captor was waiting for my answer. Swallowing, I shook my head, ignoring the headache pounding in my skull. The man froze, his jaw clenching in frustration.

  He stepped back to stand by my side. I braced my body for what I
knew would come next. His free hand took hold of my face, lightly gripping my cheeks. He pulled my face to the side until it was facing his, mere inches from his, and he said, “You may believe you are strong, little Georgian, but I have barely begun. You will not be able to take what I can deliver if you force my hand. In the end you will break.” Flexing his arm, the inked names littering his skin protruding with the movement, he added, “You all do. I’m the fucking Smert’ Kosoy. Designed to do only one thing—kill.”

  My heart missed a beat as his words drifted into my ears, and I whispered, “The bringer of death.”

  My blood ran cold when this man, this scarred Russian bringer of death, smiled. Two rows of straight white teeth gleamed under his full lips, the top marred by a red scar, and his smile brought fear to my core. Because I knew he spoke the truth. Nothing on this man screamed, Safe! In fact, it was the opposite: his appearance, his very presence, screamed, Danger!

  Yet, even as he reached over to switch on the cold fan, all I could think of was how he had said designed to do only one thing. Designed. Not born, not chose to, designed.

  Like Zaal and Anri had been designed to kill, too, by Jakhua.

  Zaal who had been turned into a killer, now a man at peace and free.

  Perhaps like this man could be. My stomach clenched as I stared at his scarred body and face, those tortured blue eyes. Suddenly all I saw was my twin brothers standing before me. My brothers forced into brutal slavery. My brothers, who had once been pure and good men.

  And like Zaal, my captor too could have once been a good man.

  It was the last thought I had as I lost consciousness … that maybe this man could be saved like Zaal, too.

  I wasn’t sure how long the punishment had lasted. When I first passed out, I woke alone. But then he did return, because he always returned. He would come back, and every time he would douse me in water and both heat and cool me until I lost consciousness again. When I awoke, his questions were endless. He would demand to know my name. He would demand to know who I was to Zaal. He would demand to know who protected my brother—their names—and how he could get to Zaal.