Between His Claws

Chapter 6: The Feast of the Senses

Alyssa

The night is indeed far from over. The silent woman returns, beckoning me to follow. We take other corridors, wider, better lit. The stone walls give way to warm stucco, and dark tapestries depicting desolate landscapes catch the light.

She ushers me into a room that takes my breath away.

It's not a dining room, it's a cave. The ceiling is a natural stone vault, from which hang ancient roots and vines. A massive table, of dark wood, is set for two. Hundreds of candles are placed everywhere, their dancing flames casting shifting shadows on the walls. There is no electricity. Only the crackle of the fire in an immense fireplace and the faint rustle of a miniature waterfall flowing into a natural pool.

And at the center of it all, him.

Silas.

He's standing by the table, a crystal goblet in his hand. He wears a black suit, perfectly cut, hugging his frame with morbid elegance. In this primitive setting, he looks like a lord of darkness, a pagan god awaiting his offering.

— Alyssa.

He speaks my name like a caress, a possession. He doesn't smile. His gaze is heavy, intense, he undresses me slowly, taking note of the nightgown, my still-damp hair, the bare skin beneath.

— Sit down.

His voice is velvet coiling around me. I obey, legs wobbling, on the chair he indicates. It's uncomfortably close to his.

He fills my glass with a dark red wine, then his.

— Drink. It's a local wine. It tastes of earth and sun.

I don't move. I stare at the crimson liquid, wondering if it's poisoned, drugged.

— If I wanted to drug you, Alyssa, I wouldn't need to go through the wine, he says, reading my thoughts once more. He brings his glass to his lips and takes a long sip, never taking his eyes off me. I want you fully conscious.

Trapped between defiance and a burning thirst, I finally grasp the glass. The wine is rich, full-bodied, fruity. It flows into my empty throat like forbidden nectar. A shiver of pleasure runs through my hungry body. I hate the immediate effect it has on me.

He rings a small bell. The woman appears, bringing dishes. Simple things, but smelling divine: grilled fish with herbs, roasted vegetables, fresh corn tortillas.

— Eat, he commands, softly. You must be hungry.

Resistance is futile. My stomach screams with hunger. I take a bite of fish. It's delicious. An authentic, wild taste. I close my eyes despite myself, savoring the sensation.

When I open them again, he's watching me, fascinated.

— You are even more beautiful when you stop fighting, he murmurs.

— I will never stop fighting.

— We'll see.

Dinner continues in a strange silence, broken only by the crackling fire and the murmur of water. He doesn't speak to me of his empire, of torture, of my captivity. He talks to me about the wine, the herbs growing on the hillsides, the legend behind this cave. His voice is hypnotic. It envelops, seduces. It's a weapon as powerful as the threat.

And I feel my defenses eroding, grain by grain, under the combined assault of food, wine, and this exclusive, brutal, and bewitching attention.

— Why all this? I ask finally, my voice weaker than I'd like. The candles, the cave, the meal… Why this spectacle?

He sets down his glass, leans forward. The candlelight plays on the angles of his face.

— Because submission isn't only wrenched through pain. It's also won through pleasure. I want you to associate my face not only with fear, but with satiety. With beauty. With the sensation of wine on your tongue and silk on your skin.

His words are a delicate poison. They find an echo in me. After days of terror and hunger, this meal, this place… it's a sensual truce, a dangerous respite.

— It's false, I whisper, convincing myself. It's all false.

— Is the taste of the wine in your mouth false? Is the warmth of the fire on your skin false? His hand brushes the back of my hand resting on the table. A burning touch, brief. Your body doesn't lie, Alyssa. Even if your mind wishes it did.

He rises and comes to stand behind my chair. I stiffen, expecting an assault. But his hands land on my shoulders. They are heavy, warm. His thumbs begin to slowly massage the tense muscles of my neck.

A moan escapes me. Traitor. Involuntary.

It feels good. Too good. After days of tension, his skilled touch finds knots I didn't even know I had. Fatigue, wine, warmth… everything conspires against me. My head falls forward, despite myself. My eyelids close.

— Let go, he murmurs against my ear, his voice a low, vibrating purr. Just for a moment.

And horrifyingly, for one infinitesimal instant, I do.

I let myself go under his hands. I let the sensation overwhelm me. It's not desire. Not yet. It's sensory capitulation. My body, exhausted, starved for contact, succumbs to the skill of his touch.

His fingers move up into my hair, massaging my scalp. An intense shiver runs from head to toe. I'm melting, unable to move, to think. There is only the warmth, the hands, and the voice whispering in my ear.

— You see? You can be mine without pain. You can surrender to pleasure.

The phrase hits me like an ice-cold shower.

I jerk upright, pushing his hands away, standing so fast my chair scrapes the stone floor.

— No.

I gasp, heart pounding. Shame floods me. I almost gave in. I did give in.

He doesn't seem angry. He looks… satisfied. As if he just won a crucial round.

— Enough for tonight, he says calmly. You've taken an important step.

He rings the bell again. The woman reappears.

— Escort Doctor Bennett back to her quarters.

I follow her, avoiding his gaze. Walking through the corridor, I still feel the burn of his hands on my skin, the taste of wine on my lips, the echo of my own betrayal in my ears.

Back in the room, I look at my reflection in the black window. My eyes are bright, my cheeks flushed. I look neither like a victim, nor like a fighter.

I look like a woman who has been touched, and who responded.

He was right. It was an important step.

And I just took it in his direction.