She must taste even better.
And all of this had him scared, utterly terrified of her existence. Fear drenched him, cold and runny down his skull, sweat beading over flesh. It was too easy for his fingers to wrap around her throat, ready to break her neck. His fangs elongating, prepared to sink into the buttery flesh of an easy prey.
He could kill her now, suck her dry, take out her heart and share it with his mates. They'd eat it, and end their future as monsters, as Lonely. And he wouldn't have to experience the ghastly effects of lusting after an Alpha. He wouldn't have to live like a puppet again, lost to the control of his own heart—
And then the pain was there, rippling through him from his middle. His magic screamed, and shrieked as if he'd stabbed himself through the chest with molten fire. A blinding sort of pain that shocked his system and had him gasping hard. His vision was besmirched with violent bursts of white.
It was as if the idea of killing her hurt. And his magic pulled at him. It didn't want her when her emotions would taste like sour, rotting fruit. It didn't want her when there were tears in the glassy blink of her eyes. It didn't want her lifeless and dead, an empty shell of guts and flesh.
It wanted her sweet. It wanted her happy. It wanted her in love. And he wanted to be the recipient of that love.
Zen stumbled back, felt himself grow soft at just the thought of crushing her skull between his fingers. He paled, breathing hard through his nose. He couldn't kill her, couldn't take from her the way he wanted to. What the fuck? He snarled.
It was almost physically impossible for him to kill her.
It would be like ripping out a part of his soul.
He stared, horrified, lost at the power of a destined Alpha, at the almost impossible final task of killing her. His fingers trailed over the bones of her jaw and cupped her cheek as if she were the most precious being in his life. And to this, she turned her face into his palm as if she wanted him there as if she knew him too.
Her features were so similar to Euodia's it was almost depressing. And if Zen wasn't so damn sure the bitch was dead, he'd truly believe that she was Euodia. He muffled a laugh, and shook his head. Now he wasn't so sure if he wanted a Euodia substitute to play with, not when this one had so much power over his magic, over his soul. His scowl deepened.
He had to get rid of her. Regret followed. Oh, why did he bring her home? He should have left her in that fucking glass bowl to die—And yet instead of crushing her skull, his hands automatically trailed up her neck, pressed against the scent gland. He smiled, dreamy as his body flooded with endorphins. The pain ebbed; the pleasure returned. How curious. A disgusting whimper escaped his throat, his body shaking.
Fuck!
He flinched backwards, burnt by his own desire, by his own lack of control. His mind spun, tried to search for a solution, for something that provided him a grasp upon reality. His eyes darted to her and to his hands, his panting slowed.
It wouldn't hurt to play her the way Euodia did. And Zen could do it, he could make her fall in love with him. And he could take what he wanted from her. Surely, he could get used to her presence and become immune to her lure. And he could eventually eat her whole and kill her. His lips curled.
She wouldn't trust him if she knew that he was royalty, and she must know his face. His lips pursed, thinking. She couldn't know, couldn't know who he was until she was ready. He had to play it slow, had to control her, had to gain her trust. She'd be his.
He would become her Omega, and then he'd introduce her to his mates, one at a time, until they were all ready to kill her.
His lips stretched and a plan began to form.
*
Quinn
Quinn awoke with a fire coursing through her veins.
Her body screamed; and the edges of her felt ashy, burnt and crumbling, pus-swollen and inflamed. Her throat was raw. All mouth-drying, sandpaper-like friction that seemed to shred her insides. She tasted rust on her tongue.
Blood.
The phantom ghost of the obstruction—the tubes, the feeding pipes; continued pushing at the columns of her throat, throbbing in her urethra. It hurt, and she stifled a cry, hands stretching higher, wrist aching. But Quinn was free, and the wind blew, her fingers no longer chained to machinery. And instead of the heavy electric collar, there was nothing around her throat but raw skin.
The fuck?
Her eyes were heavier than usual, awkwardly sticky with the horrors of her torture. And she had to peel them open, had to lie down and stare up into the darkness. Then wait for her vision to adjust, and her ears to work. She was outside. Outside. In sand, with the dust and the dunes, the barren trees, the rocks—the wasteland.
She was free.