Chapter 15
1011 Words
***CONTENT WARNING: SCENES AHEAD MIGHT BE DISTURBING TO SOME AUDIENCE. READER DISCRETION ADVISED***
(Sanya's POV)
The cold is too much. My body can't take it.
I've stopped shivering now, which I know is a bad sign. I learned that once, back when I was in school. When you stop shivering during hypothermia, it means your body is shutting down. It means you're dying.
The thought should terrify me. But I'm too numb to feel anything anymore.
Not fear. Not anger. Not even the humiliation of having Tyron's entire family watch me suffer like I'm some kind of spectacle put on for their entertainment.
My lips are blue. I can see them when I glance down at my reflection in the melted ice water pooling around me. My skin has taken on a grayish tint, like I'm already a corpse. Maybe I am. Maybe I died hours ago and just haven't realized it yet.
Tyron stands over me. His chest heaving with exertion from fury and having to carry bucket after bucket of ice to dump over my head. His face is twisted with rage so violent, I fear he might just snap my neck and bring an end to this.
He reaches for something on the table beside him.
A can of chili powder.
My stomach drops. What is he—
He pries the lid off. The red powder inside looks like blood in the dim morning light filtering through the windows.
"Open your mouth." An order, not a request.
I shake my head. Or I try to. My neck is so stiff from the cold I can barely move it.
"I said open your mouth!" Tyron roars.
He grabs my jaw. His fingers dig into my cheeks with a bruising force, that forces my jaw apart.
Then he dumps the chili powder in my mouth.
And the effect is immediate.
Fire explodes in my mouth. Down my throat. It's like swallowing lava, breathing in flames, every nerve ending in my mouth set ablaze all at once.
I choke. Gag. Try to spit it out the power but Tyron clamps his hand over my mouth, forcing me to swallow it down.
The powder burns ever worse going down. It feels like it's tearing my throat apart from the inside out.
When he finally releases me, I collapse in a heap on my hands and knees. I cough and gag, trying desperately to expel the fire burning inside me.
"Water," I beg. My voice raw and raspy, barely a whisper. "Please. Water."
I look up at the family gathered around me. At Tara with her arms crossed. Marcus standing beside her, his face blank. At John and Mira on the sofa, Mira's lips curved in a cruel smile.
At the servants hovering in the doorway, their eyes wide but their bodies frozen in fear.
No one moves to help me.
They just watch. Like I'm entertainment. A show put on for their amusement.
Tyron reaches for another bucket of ice and dumps it over my head.
The shock of it makes me cry out. The ice hits my burning skin with a sensation I can't even describe—fire and ice, pain so intense my vision goes white.
I experience a strange detachment. As if a part of me separates itself from my battered body, and is on the verge of leaving this world.
Aaron, where are you? I sob, fear gripping my heart.
"The Creator doesn't look kindly on a man who torments his wife, young man. You should show mercy where possible."
Right then a calm, soothing voice comes from the door. Cutting through the haze of pain like a blade.
I force my eyes open. The world is blurry, unfocused, but I can make out a figure standing in the doorway.
An old man. In a shaman's robe. Simple, rough-spun fabric that looks ancient, like something from a different time and place. His face is weathered and lined with age, his beard long and white. He leans on a gnarled wooden staff.
Tyron spins around. "What is a shaman doing in my pack? Who called you?"
His voice is sharp, aggressive, but I hear something else underneath. Uncertainty. Maybe even fear.
The shaman doesn't answer. He doesn't move. He just stands there, his ancient eyes fixed on Tyron.
Then a garland appears from nowhere. One moment the air is empty, the next a thick rope of woven flowers materializes out of nowhere, glowing with a soft golden light that fills the hall.
It moves like a snake. As if it's alive, as it wraps around Tyron, pinning his arms to his sides, binding him from chest to thigh.
Tyron roars. He struggles against the garland, his muscles bulging, his face turning red with effort.
But the garland holds firm. And the more he fights, the tighter it seems to get.
The family gasps. Tara stumbles backward. And Marcus's usual controlled expression finally cracks into shock.
The servants in the doorway fall to their knees, pressing their foreheads to the ground, begging for mercy.
The shaman walks through their prostrated bodies. His steps slow, measured, each one falling heavier than the last. He moves with the kind of authority that comes from being above mortal affairs. From the absolute certainty of knowing exactly who he is and where he is headed.
Meaning... he fears nothing, and no one, except The One Most Feared.
He stops beside me.
Up close, I can see his eyes. They're dark, almost black, but they hold depths I can't begin to fathom. Like looking into the night sky and seeing all the stars that ever were and ever will be.
He reaches into his robes and pulls out a small flask.
"Drink, child," he says, his voice gentle now, nothing like the commanding tone he used with Tyron.
I tilt my head, as he tips the flask to my lips, too weak and exhausted to even move my hands.
Water pours into my mouth. Cool, clean, sweet. It tastes like mountain springs and fresh rain.
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