God of Monsters (Juniper Unraveling #4) - Keri Lake Page 0,46

from me. “You call me the God of Monsters. Seems more fitting for the one you worship.”

Touché. “Is the fact that I’m a Daughter troubling to you?”

“I would’ve fought for a thousand savage women before you.”

Savages. Ones who grew up in the Deadlands. It was the derogatory term people in Szolen used to describe anyone not living within its precious bubble of purity. Worse than gypsies, because at least they were allowed inside the walls.

His words shouldn’t pierce my heart. They shouldn’t spring tears to my eyes that force me to look away. And they surely shouldn’t have me understanding why he’d say such a thing, but I do. I’ve heard the rumors amongst the gypsies back at Szolen, and I know how those beyond the wall view us. A privileged lot of spoiled assholes. And they’re not wrong. I wouldn’t last a day out in the Deadlands on my own. It’s a fact that’s shamed me for longer than my time spent out here. Because of my ignorance in survival, I’m imprisoned by two psychopaths, one of whom wants to impregnate me with his psychopath spawn.

The only thing I have to rely on is my wit, and I’m not even sure how far that’ll get me.

Clearing the tears from my throat, ones I’m certain are due to little sleep, I take the cup he holds out for me. “It seems your wounds don’t require any more attention. I’ll remove the stitches tomorrow, and that’ll be the last you’ll have to put up with my conversation.”

“I doubt that.”

“Why?”

“The wounds in this place never fully heal.”

I believe that. I’ve not even begun to scratch the surface of horrors that lie beneath this place.

As I twist away to return the cup, a grip of my arm sends alarms blaring through my head, and I look down to where his fingers are curled around my bicep. He yanks me close, not hard enough to hurt the welts on my back, but enough that the cup tumbles out of my hand and clatters to the concrete.

With a palm to his thigh, I catch myself from an ungracious fall into his chest, and a chill spirals up the back of my neck. Muscles locked and tense, I open my mouth to call for the guard, my voice choked by a gasp, when he leans into me. So close I can feel the heat radiating off his body. Smell the soap still clinging to his skin. The power this man wields, even when chained.

“You okay in there?” the guard calls to me from down the hall.

Golden eyes swallow mine, as I lock my gaze on Titus. “I’m okay! I just … dropped a cup!” I can’t help but wonder if those will be my last words.

My whole arm fits in this man’s palm, and in one twist, he could easily break it, if he wanted.

“I’d be careful, if I were you.” The tone of his voice mirrors his warning, the baritone sound vibrating through my chest, and the resulting throb between my legs urges me to clench my thighs. “Once they see their marks on you, they won’t want to see you without.”

My stomach shouldn’t be fluttering right now. My heart shouldn’t be pounding so hard that I have to breathe shallow just to keep up with it. And I really shouldn’t be so preoccupied with the fact that his thigh feels like hot steel beneath my hand, particularly when he’s telling me there’s more pain to come.

I twist my arm to get loose, and he doesn’t hesitate to release me. “I should stand by and let them rape me, then?” I ask, pushing off him in an effort to compose myself.

“No woman should stand by.” Brows pinched together, he almost seems troubled by the thought, if such a thing is even capable of troubling him. Titus is as much an enigma when he speaks, as when he stares off, keeping to himself.

“Then, what would you have me do?” I swipe up the fallen cup, frustrated that his touch still burns across my skin. That every nerve in my body seems twice as receptive as before.

That my heart is still freaking pounding.

Instead of answering, he looks away, quiet again. He’s a man who’s lost the fight in him, that much is obvious. Regardless of what Tom says, or what happened back at that arena, they’ve broken him, somehow, and I’d venture to guess the scars on his skin speak of the manner in which they did