TWISTED (Eternal Guardians Book 7)
Elisabeth Naughton
For You,
my loyal Eternal Guardians fans.
Finally, Nick.
“Here, therefore, huge and mighty warrior though you be, here shall you die.”
—Homer, The Iliad
CHAPTER ONE
She’d made a deal with the devil. A sadistic, twisted, perverted devil.
As if there was really any other kind.
Of course, the fact he was a depraved son of a bitch didn’t really bother Cynna. She’d known exactly what she was getting into. She’d weighed the cost and the reward before agreeing. No, what bothered her was the fact her devil wasn’t your run-of-the-mill I’ll-take-your-soul-and-you-can-have-your-wildest-fantasy kind of guy. Her devil continued to take, even after that initial transaction. And what he still wanted from her…
Sickness pooled in her stomach. A sickness she’d learned long ago to fight back. In this place, nausea meant weakness, and weakness equaled death. And if there was one thing she wasn’t willing to give up, even for the greatest revenge in all the world, it was her will to live. He could take her soul. He could take her body. He could even take her freedom. She wouldn’t balk at any of those. But he’d never have her will. Not while she had an ounce of fight left within her.
“How is our boy today, my sweet?”
Cynna’s body instinctively stiffened at the sound of Zagreus’s deep voice coming up behind her, but she willed her muscles to relax inch by inch. Leaning her weight onto her right leg and wishing she wore pants instead of the stupid leather miniskirt and knee-high stiletto boots he insisted she parade around in, she crossed her arms over her chest and stared down into the arena below.
Three satyrs holding sharp, vile-looking weapons circled a shirtless man swinging a blade as long as his forearm. His feet were bare, his jeans riding low on his lean hips, his torso strong and cut under the lights hanging from above. Muscles flexed in his arms and beneath his skin. His shaggy blond hair fell into his face, and a thick beard covered his jaw. But it was the scars on his back that drew her attention. Thin white lines that crisscrossed all over his skin, as if he’d been whipped and tortured long before he’d found himself prisoner in this wretched lair. “Holding his own. So far.”
“He’s fighting.” Zagreus stepped up against her spine, his heat washing over her in a hot, sticky wave. He placed his hands on her shoulders, making her wish she was dressed in something other than this skintight black corset top—something else he insisted she wear. “That’s an improvement.”
Cynna wasn’t so sure. The man might be wielding that blade like a pro, but he was doing it on his terms, not theirs, and as soon as Zagreus realized that, his amicable mood would head straight for the shitter.
Zagreus’s fingers kneaded Cynna’s bare skin, and she swallowed back the bile sliding up her throat. His palms were wide, his fingers long. She knew from experience he could use his hands for pleasure and pain—she’d been on the receiving end of both—but today, any touch from him felt wrong. And it had since the man below had come into her world.
The satyr on the right charged, and Cynna’s stomach curled into a knot. The man ducked beneath the sword, narrowly missed being decapitated, swiveled, and arced out with his blade. It caught the satyr across the chest, and he stumbled back. The satyr on the left lunged. The man hit the ground with a thud, rolled, then popped back up, catching the second satyr in the leg.
He was stealth and danger and precision and coiled strength, and Cynna’s blood hummed as she watched his body twist and turn and beat back the monsters with a rhythm that looked more like a dance than a battle. Blood gushed from the satyr’s wound. The beast dropped his weapon—a pitchfork-like trident with long angled teeth—and howled. The third, realizing it was his chance, lurched off the ground and hurled himself toward the man who held her riveted attention.
Their bodies collided in a crunch of bones and tendons and sinew. Weapons went flying. Fists connected with jaws. They rolled across the sand of the training arena. High above, Cynna tensed as she watched the man take hit after hit. At her back, Zagreus’s excitement permeated the air around her, as did his whispered “Come on. Unleash the monster.”
His fingers dug into her shoulders. Pain spiraled from the spot, shooting up and down her spine, but she didn’t move. Her eyes were fixed on the struggle below. Sand flew up into the air. Blood and sweat coated their bodies. Grunts echoed off the walls. They rolled again, and the satyr got the upper hand, pinning the man to the arena floor. One hand pressed down hard on his shoulder while the other closed in a vise around his throat.