Zara’s POV
Pain was a language Zara understood fluently, from the physical aspect to the crippling emotional side of pain. However, it was still a regular constant. The low thrum from the collar never ceased; a permanent ache that was the price of her existence. Typically, the hot metal around her neck was the only cause, but tonight another pain had joined the chorus.
A symphony of fresh bruises blooming on her arms, a throbbing ache in her skull from the headbutt she’d landed, and the raw, stinging sensation around her wrists where the leather cords bit into her skin.
She was slung over the shoulder of the man, her kidnapper, like a sack of grain. Each of his steps jolted through her, a brutal rhythm against her ribs. The world was upside down, a dizzying blur of dark trees and moonlit path. The only sound was the crunch of his boots and the ragged, soundless sobs that still shuddered through her.
She had fought. By the gods, she had fought. Not that it seemed to matter, she still found herself bound and being carried away from the only place she’s known as home.
The man had not spoken since he’d tied her hands. He moved with a grim purpose, his grip impersonal and firm. He was a void of sound to her, just like everything else. Unlike the passive silence of Oakhaven, his silence felt aggressive. Intentional. A weapon.
Zara couldn’t imagine why someone would choose to be quiet. She longed to be able to speak, had often wondered what her voice sounded like.
He carried her into a small, decrepit hunter’s shack tucked deep in the woods, a place she’d known of but never dared approach. He dumped her unceremoniously onto a rough cot piled with moth-eaten furs. She scrambled upright, pushing herself into the corner, drawing her knees to her chest. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, silent drum.
For a long moment, he just stood there, a broad silhouette blocking the door, outlined by the faint moonlight filtering through the grimy window. She could hear the faint, wet sound of him wiping the blood from his face with the back of his sleeve. Then, he moved.
She flinched, expecting violence, but he merely crouched before the cold hearth, his back to her, and began building a fire with an efficient, practiced ease. The strike of flint on steel was a shockingly loud punctuation in the overwhelming quiet. A spark caught, and soon a small flame began to eat at the kindling, casting flickering, dancing shadows that made him look even more monstrous.
The light gave Zara her first honest look at him. He was older than her, perhaps by a decade. His face was all hard lines and angles, weathered by sun and wind. His dark hair was cropped short, a practical choice. A fresh, dark smear of blood stained his upper lip and chin, but it was his eyes that held her. In the firelight, they were sharp, flinty grey, and as they swept over her, she saw no cruelty in them. Only a cold, assessing calculation. He was looking at her the way a man looks at a complex piece of machinery, frustrated, but focused on a solution.
His gaze lingered on the collar, and for the first time, she saw a flicker of something else. It didn’t seem to be fear, but she found herself unable to place the emotion. Everyone who had looked at her since that fateful day had been filled with fear and hate.
He reached into a pack and pulled out a waterskin and a small, wrapped parcel of food. He placed them on the floor within her reach but far enough away that she’d have to leave the cot to get them. A test. An offering, or bait for a trapped animal.
He finally spoke, his voice a low rumble that she felt more than heard, a vibration that settled through to her bones. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The words were so absurd they almost broke through her terror. He had already hurt her. He had dragged her from her garden, tied her up, and carried her off into the night. What did he call that?
She stared, unblinking. She would not give him a thing!
His jaw tightened. He took a step closer. Her hand flew to her throat, her fingers pressing against the hated metal. A part of her, a wild and desperate part, wished she could rip it off and unleash the power that had ruined her life; to turn it on him. But a deeper, more ingrained fear kept her fingers from even attempting. The familiar, solid presence of the collar was its own terrible kind of comfort; it was the devil she knew.
His eyes flashed to her hand; something unfamiliar flickered in his eyes. Suddenly, she remembered the skin beneath and around the metal was a landscape of ruined flesh; a twisted, shiny patchwork of old burns and angry, red scars. A permanent record of every heightened emotion and attempted spoken words.
He took a deliberate step back, giving her space. He ran a hand over his face, looking suddenly very tired.
“Right,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “No speaking.”
He turned back to the fire, leaving the food and water between them like a peace offering. She had no intention of taking it. Why would this man feed her? The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the crackle of the flames.
And in that silence, Zara did the only thing she had left. She retreated inward. She wrapped the silence around her like a shield and let the memories of her garden, her stars, and the family that no longer knew her name swallow her whole. She’d been stolen from the only home she had ever known, but she had already been a prisoner there.
ns216.73.216.13da2
and then Add to home screen.