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910 Words
That wasn’t the worst part, though. The worst part was the dark stain in the dirt at its base, a sinister, spreading splotch that belied the countless punishments that had taken place beneath its naked boughs.
Hawk stood before it with his head bowed, eyes turned to the ground, hands hanging loose at his sides. Around the tree in a circle hundreds deep, the tribe gathered, still with an eerie silence, to watch. The Alpha stood at the edge of the circle with spread legs and folded arms, smirking.
Jack and Morgan were allowed to pass to the front of the crowd, and Jack’s cheeks burned molten hot as they went.
“How bad will it be?” she whispered through stiff lips.
Morgan hesitated a moment before answering. “Depends on how squeamish you are.”
Jack swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. Shaking hands, pounding heart, a cold sweat . . . she recognized the signs of panic, and tried to take deep, slow breaths to counteract the impending hyperventilation.
She’d seen many horrible injuries in her career. The human body was fragile, and could be torn apart in a million gruesome ways. She’d become somewhat immune to it, to the sight of blood and the wretched screams of pain from wounded soldiers and civilians in war zones, but the thought of hearing Hawk scream . . . the thought of watching him bleed . . .
“No. Weakness.”
Morgan’s voice was barely discernible above the roar of the blood rushing through Jack’s veins, but she heard the steel in it nonetheless.
They halted at the front of the ring of silent witnesses. With a final look of warning, Morgan released Jack’s arm. She walked with regal grace to the other side of the circle, and grasped the outstretched hand of a man waiting there for her, an enormous, amber-eyed male with dark hair shorn close to his head and a glower that could freeze lava. One of the few others fully clothed, he pulled Morgan against his body in a tight, possessive embrace, and leaned down to murmur something into her ear.
Morgan glanced at Jack, looked over at Hawk, then nodded. She looked back at Jack with that warning still evident in her eyes.
No weakness! Don’t cry! Don’t let the Alpha win!
Realizing this might be one of the more difficult things she’d had to do in her life, Jack nodded back, determined.
“We’ll do this in English for your benefit, my dear,” said the Alpha to Jack without taking his gaze from Hawk, who lifted his head and stared straight at her.
That focused look reminded her of his warnings, uttered such a short time ago.
One: the Alpha is always right.
Jack stayed silent, staring back at Hawk while the panic in her body rose to a burning, bright shriek of noise and pressure, painful as if her nerves were being scraped with the blade of a knife.
Was he afraid? Would he be badly hurt? What was that look in his eye?
Was it fear? Resignation?
Was it . . . blame?
Two: opinions won’t be welcome.
“Lucas Eduardo Tavares Castelo Luna,” the Alpha intoned, “Salsu Maru of the House of Air. For your disobedience you will be punished in accordance with the ancient rites, and will receive two hundred”—he glanced at Jack, hesitating only a moment before amending it to—“one hundred lashes. What do you have to say before punishment commences?”
Hawk’s gaze was so focused on Jack’s face, his stare so burning and intent, she felt as if he was trying to slip inside her body using only his eyes.
Three: Don’t go anywhere without me. Especially at night.
“The same thing I always have to say. Nothing.”
Hawk’s voice was empty, so empty and hollow and cold, but those eyes . . .
He’d tried to warn her. He’d tried to tell her to be quiet, to be safe, to let him lead the way, yet she’d ignored all the advice he’d given her simply because she was hurt and confused over his kiss, over the way he’d reacted to it as if putting his mouth against hers had been the biggest mistake of his life.
It’s your fault for writing that article and pushing us into a corner and forcing our hand!
God . . . he was right. This was her fault.
This entire situation was her fault!
“Then we’ll proceed,” said the Alpha, sounding smug, flush with anticipation.
As if cued, a man stepped forward from the crowd.
Sinewy, squat, and shirtless, he sported a black hood that covered his head. Only his eyes were visible through the dark cloth. They peered out with a feral, quicksilver flash like a wild thing from a nighttime wood. Two more males approached, stripped Hawk’s shirt off his back, turned him around, and shoved him toward the tree.
Oh God—oh God—No!
They chained him to the trunk. He remained mute and as placid as a lamb, allowing them to encircle his wrists in metal and raise them over his head so he stood flush against the dead tree with his legs spread, his broad, naked back exposed, his cheek turned to the black, broken bark.
He was so beautiful it hurt to look at him.
- Writer
