Page 60 of The Monsters We Are
Wynter gave an unconcerned shrug. “I told you that you’d die for this.”
Ishtar stepped into the circle. “One of my very own aides betrayed me,” she called out, ensuring her voice carried to the large crowd. “How exactly? By betraying my fellow Ancient. She was party to a plan to take his consort to Aeon. Treachery is not something that I take lightly. It willnevergo unpunished. It willneverearn a traitor anything other than an excruciating death. Apparently, some people have forgotten that. Well, let me refresh your memories.”
And then Shelia dropped to her knees, screaming like someone was ripping apart her entire being. It reminded Wynter of the time that Cain had tortured a berserker by lashing out at his soul. That was the thing . . . When an Ancient had rights to your soul, they couldn’t only cause you pleasure on an almost unbearable scale; they could also cause you the same scale of pain.
Still screaming, Shelia fell forward, bracing herself on her hands and knees. Vessels in her eyes burst. Sweat broke out on her flushed skin. Veins stood out on her face and neck.
Ishtar gave her no mercy or reprieve. Each time it looked like Shelia might pass out, the Ancient eased off for a few moments. But then the torture would begin again. It went on and on and on.
Shelia coughed up blood, making Wynter wonder if the screaming had burst blood vessels in the aide’s throat or lungs. She crumpled to the ground, curling up in a ball as if it would protect her from the onslaught of pain. But nothing could.
Wynter noticed that the crowd—which kept on growing, as though people were drawn by the cries—weren’t finding it easy to watch. Some flinched or glanced away. Others looked nauseous and were clamping their lips tightly shut. But none appeared eager to speak up on the screaming woman’s behalf.
Wynter’s coven would be so sorry they’d missed this. They hadn’t yet returned from searching for her, so she wasn’t able to check in with them.
On the ground, Shelia arched and kicked her legs as the agony continued. Her wails became hoarse, strangled cries. And Wynter knew that the woman would mentally break if Ishtar didn’t pull back sometime soon.
Maybe Cain had that same thought, because he stepped into the circle and held up his hand, indicating for the female Ancient to stop. Ishtar narrowed her eyes, so affronted by the authoritative gesture that she defiantly kept up the torture for a few more moments. But then, finally, she stopped.
Cain circled the aide as she shivered and whimpered. Her muscles occasionally spasmed, and she mumbled indecipherable words here and there.
Unlike Ishtar, he didn’t look at or address the crowd. And Wynter knew it was because, as much as the idea of a public execution might suit him, he wasn’t really doing this for them. He didn’t care to make a production out of this. His focus was on Shelia, on making the woman suffer purely because, after what she’d done, it would fucking please him.
Knowing what he did next would be bad, Wynter braced herself—or, more specifically, her stomach. She wouldn’t look away. She wouldn’t show any disgust, no matter what he did. He’d already returned that favor by never backing away whenever she came to him looking exactly as she did right then.
He lifted his hand, palm up, and a shimmering wave of power gathered in a cloud-like form. The “cloud” twisted, swirled, and pulsed. Faster and faster and faster. Until it shifted, changing color and form, becoming something else.
Becoming a swarm of bees.
Big-ass bees that buzzed almost . . . frantically. Angrily, even.Oh hell.
The insects descended on Shelia, covering her from head to toe. She bucked and spasmed, flapping her hands and weakly kicking her legs. The bees didn’t fly away, undeterred. Some crawled into her ears and mouth—possibly even into other orifices.
Crack.
Wynter almost jolted at the sound. There was another crack. And another. It was only then she realized that one of Shelia’s arms was now twisted awkwardly.Jesus.
Cold fingers danced over Wynter’s nape. It was sometimes easy for her to forget how powerful Cain was; how effortlessly he could inflict pain; how very little mercy ran through his veins.
More bones cracked. More body parts twisted at unnatural angles. Until the woman looked like a damn contortionist. It was cruel and sadistic—there were no two ways about it. Shelia’s weak cries of pain were lost beneath the buzzing.
It was just as Shelia looked like she didn’t have much life left in her that there was one final crack. Her neck had been broken. The bees gradually faded, eventually disintegrating into nothing. As Leviathans were literal gateways to hell, there was only one place Shelia’s soul would go, no matter how many good deeds she might have done in her life—the very depths of hell.
Bon voyage.
No one spoke. Or moved. Or even breathed too loud. Including the other Ancients. The last thing anyone appeared to want was Cain’s attention.
His gaze sought Wynter. Darkened. Intensified. Gleamed. An array of emotions flickered fast in those eyes—too fast for her to discern them—as if each was fighting for dominance.
Despite that her insides were still doing sickly little flips, she held out her hand, letting him know that she wouldn’t turn away from him; that she wasn’t disgusted by what he’d done or who he was.
Oh, the torture had been hard to watch for sure. And it could be said that he’d taken it further than he’d needed to. But she wasn’t sure she’d have been any less merciful in his position, if she was honest. And considering Adam would have donefarworse to Wynter—something that had probably driven Cain to make Shelia’s death so agonizing—it was seriously difficult to feel any sympathy for her.
Cain stalked straight to Wynter and slipped his hand into hers. “Home,” he said. It wasn’t an invitation. It was a warning. A message that he wasn’t prepared to part from her any time soon.
Since she wasn’t feeling the need to have any space or time away from him, she agreed, “Home.”
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