Page 6 of The Guardian (Dark-Hunter 20)
Lydia stopped moving as she found herself alone. Where was the demon?
More to the point, where was she?
Like the rest of the realm she'd been in, the room was dark, with the only light coming from that eerie blue tubing on the ceiling that strangely reminded her of blood. A damp chill clung to the air, making the place even more depressing.
The strangest part though, was the absence of a door. Not a single trace of one. Nor a window either. She walked around the room, double checking. Sure enough. The only way in or out was teleportation. Something she still couldn't do.
Damn it!
Trapped, she saw a large canopied bed in the far corner. Fur blankets were draped over it, but it didn't appear to be slept in. In fact, it had a layer of dust over it. The walls were the same damp stone that made up the hallways she'd been down.
There was a fireplace, but no fire to chase away the deep chill in the room that cut all the way to her bones. Next to that was a large, extremely neat, Baroque wood desk. A laptop, of all weird things, rested on top of it. That was the only personal item in the room.
Curious, she walked over to it, intending to turn it on. But the instant she touched it, the top slammed down, barely missing her fingers.
What the devil?
She tried to open it, but it refused. It was as if the thing was alive and knew she wasn't supposed to use it. Yeah ...
But at least she wasn't being tortured.
Yet.
What am I going to do?
Pick up her dagger, which she did, and wait. She grimaced at the amount of blood on it. It looked like she'd hit an artery. And he hadn't even reacted to her stab. Obviously, he was an immortal. One who liked to be in pain.
I am so dead.
What else would he do with her, other than kill her?
The obvious answer to that terrified her even more than the thought of dying. I won't be raped. She might not be able to kill him, but she could geld him and that she would definitely do if he laid a hand on her.
With that thought foremost in her mind, she went to the corner and sat on the floor with her back against the wall. Now she was ready for him and she would renew their battle whenever he returned.
* * *
"Where's Lydia?"
Seth paused at Solin's belligerent tone. So that was the woman's name.
Lydia. It was pretty ... like a song. But he wasn't a poet.
He was death, and she was nothing but a pawn to get what he needed. Narrowing his gaze, he went to the table that held Solin in place by chains. All too well, he knew how much it hurt to be pinned that way.
How humiliating. There was no worse feeling than to be at the mercy of someone else and to not be able to fight back or even protect yourself. To lay there with no clue as to when the next round of torture would begin.
To have no dignity.
No hope of escape ...
Deep inside, a part of him felt sorry for Solin.
Don't you dare! his mind snarled at him. It was that very thing that had gotten him punished to begin with. And if he didn't get what he needed, he would be there again.
No one ever came for you. He must never forget that. No one had ever tried to help him. He'd never had a single ounce of compassion from anyone.
Not even his own mother. The memory of her brutality was as fresh today as it'd been when he was child, cursing her for intentionally leaving him to die.
Unprotected.
Alone.
But Lydia had come for Solin. She'd risked her life trying to help him. Jealousy plowed through his heart. What about Solin was so special and deserving that he warranted such concern and loyalty? Such personal sacrifice?
