"Who are you? What do you want from me?"
Was what she had intended to speak, but adrenaline pumped through her blood and she was off the floor and careening towards the window in a heartbeat.
His movement was a shadow
One moment he was at the door and the next—
The wind was knocked from her lungs as she slammed face first into his abdomen.
"Ow!" Staggering back blindly with her arms wheeling outwards to steady herself, mica slid to the ground hard enough to make her teeth rattle.
She glanced up briefly before skittering in the opposite direction.
She whirled around and tried for the window.
But he was there. Waiting.
For a split second she paused, unnerved by how he kept reappearing in the directions she intended to go. It was not as if she could hear him move, and the insanity of it all was he was not looking at her.
Rather his head had lowered to the floor, taking on an attitude of prayer. But he was not praying, he was listening.
"What are you?" She panted, inching away from his looming figure that cast darkness across the room.
… what…
The voice had a subtle edge of offense to it, but his mouth said otherwise; strong and wide it curled at the corners flashing her a fang or two. "Who."
Mica realized the correction amidst the confusion. Her mouth opened then shut, she cleared her throat and glanced nervously to the door. "Who— who are you?"
"Have you not seen me yet?"
"What?"
"Do you see me, Mica."
Her brows furrowed deeply at the center as she looked him over uneasily, from the length to the breadth; the simple dark cloak which he wore clipped at the throat and draped over his body concealing whatever was beneath. His hair was silver threaded in darkness hinting at an ancient of days… he looked younger than the impression he gave.
She wringed her hands whilst mulling over the answer, "I do?"
"Do you hear me?"
She stared hoping the answer would surface on his face. And then it clicked, her eyes widened in amazement, then fear. "Are you the voice in my head?"
Outside the wind howled against the walls and cut through the window stirring at his cloak. His head tilted to the side in response to the sound, hearing something she could not discern in the woods.
… surrender to me…
His mouth was not moving anymore but the voice in her head was so distinct she stepped back. "I'm sorry… I don't… I'm not who you think I am…"
… mica… Her name rolled in her chest like sweet butter. … I know exactly who you are…
Mica began to speak when the sound of a low growl moved from the walls beyond. Her head turned in that direction which proved to be a misstep.
The man – creature – moved.
His shadow fell upon her and she barely flinched when a large gloved palm covered her mouth firmly. She tasted leather. The solid length of him pressed against her and she began to whip about in a panic when his other hand came up to cradle the back of her head and forced her face into his abdomen.
Mica froze at the intimate proximity.
Carefully, almost casually, the man inched her backwards up until the wall.
Her heart was thundering.
Then his coat seemed to swell with a life of its own.
Mica's eyes widened.
It parted, yawning open with a sigh before slowly covering her in a dark embrace that cocooned her to him. The cloak had quite literally opened and closed over her.
To the naked eye from outside, the sight of this would look ridiculous. A girl hugged – no, held – by a man inside his own coat. She tried to move but the dangerous curl of his fingers in her scalp warned her not to.
And then she heard it. The dragging of a heavy body beyond the walls. The panting of breaths so heavy and hard, as if scenting the air for prey.
Scent.
A ridiculous thought crossed her mind then – he had obscured her scent.
But from what?
Distinctly she could hear the movements outside the wall as they inched closer, it was more than one beast, the clicking of nails on wood as they ascended the short flight of steps and walked about with their snouts lowered and ropes of slobbered drool leaking onto the floor.
Suddenly, she felt the man shift from his neck as if looking over his shoulder at the door.
There was silence.
And then a voice so human it startled her.
"My king."
My king?
Her brows furrowed in confusion. She wanted to peer through the curtain of the cloak out of curiosity but the one who held her spoke.
"Issachar." An invitation for the other to speak.
My King?
"The regions have been scouted for the enemies, losses amounted to three hundred with sixty of the women and children taken as captive for the slave trade auction."
There was a pause, "the children have been requested by the eastern king."
A bead of sweat surfaced on her temple. It was warm within his cloak and his furnace of a body was no help either but her mind was fixed on their conversation and for an absurd moment, Mica didn't mind being encased by this man, so long as she could eavesdrop.
"The children." The man's chest vibrated against her ear when he spoke, it made her dizzy. There was a thoughtful pause, and he sounded amused when he spoke; "Ah, yes. He always had a thing for little boys."
Mica tensed.
As if sensing her racing thoughts, the gloved palm that cradled her head shifted subtly as long hard fingers carefully caressed her hair and scalp, tracing down her nape and back up in an unfamiliar soothing pattern.
To her dismay, it did the job.
"We will round up the young ones for his harem."
"Do so."
Her body was betraying her. Beneath the intimate stroking of his palm, she was relaxing, turning to putty in his grip. Like clay in a potter's hand he was molding her into something soft and yielding.
"My King," the voice returned, "the soldiers scoured the place of the sacrifice and only found six of the bodies."
This time not even his strokes could reassure her. Mica tensed like strings drawn taut it was difficult to move with her arms pinned between them.
His hand shifted its course of movement and drifted to her right ear. She withdrew from his touch as it brushed against her earlobe– cut away in her uncle's rage.
If he noticed, he did nothing, only tapped at it.
… listen…
"The seventh, my Lord, seems to have escaped perhaps before or during the sacrifice."
"Is that so?" If he was feigning surprise, he was doing a poor job of it; boredom had hooked onto the tone of his voice and now he was no longer tugging at her earlobe but rubbing it between his fingers.
Mica tried to swat at his hand, failed, and settled for scowling instead with her cheeks flushing a hot red.
"We have sent out scouts to find the seventh sacrifice. What would you like us to do once we find her?"
There was a hairsbreadth of silence that she hadn't realized was heightened by her own stillness. Now inclined more than ever to know his response, Mica listened.
"Finish the job that my beast failed to do."