The Sea Siren

Chapter Forty-One

Vivian

The retreating boots clamor up the stairwell, echoing until the jail cell slams shut... all traces of light disappearing with them. The dungeon is no different than others I've sat inside.

Cold. Wet. Foul.

And hey, full of criminals.

The goliath watches me limp to the opposite wall, uncomfortably intense. I sigh, sliding down, meeting his gaze boldly. Every inch of him may be covered in ink designs and his biceps the size of two heads, but I have no intention of starting a fight I'd struggle to win until the time calls for it.

Clearly, sleep isn't an option.

Rubbing my wrists, I access my situation.

Captured. Certain for the gallows... or worse.

My eyes shift up to the ceiling, imagining so many floors above, Antony walks, not knowing I'm this close. My first instinct was getting word to him... finding a way to bribe, trick, coerce my way into the ear of a guard, someone who could alert the prince of my situation.

Pride keeps me on my ass.

The inability to rely on another for help. It's a sickening feeling—to assume I'm so beyond getting out of this myself. Despite my rational mind imploring me for sense, aware of the dire situation I'm under, I cannot bring myself to take action.

I may not make it out of this place in one piece, but fuck me, I'm taking that bastard with me.

Down this deep, there is no indication of day or night. Just the changing of the guard, the arrival of food. I've gone so long without it, I'm beyond the desperation I felt on the ship. Still, I force the food down, drink the water.

I'll need all the energy I can get, I imagine.

My blood has curdled during the long hours, irritated by the brazenness of my cellmate.

I'm bloody.

I'm exhausted.

I'm hungry for revenge.

Now isn't the time to mess with me.

"There are other places to look in this hell hole than my face, asshole," I snap, damned if I cower from the giant from his size alone.

"I'm not looking at your face."

Various snickers sound through the row, many who find his comment amusing.

"Don't test me," I whisper menacingly, going rigid, the natural born womanly instinct in me prepared to fight.

"They dealt you a bad hand puttin' you with him, sweetheart," someone says, clicking their tongue in feigned regret. When he rises to his feet, taking up half the cell, I realize there isn't a chance two of us make it through the night in this space.

When I bring myself to my feet, I hear excited hollers, cheers.

The prisoners thrilled to see sport.

I don't know how I'll beat this man without a weapon in sight and a bad ankle, but I must.

I have no choice.

The welts on my wrist are purple as I level them to my eyes, closing my hands into fists.

We move at the same time. Him charging for me... and I dive down for the plate the guards have yet to pick up. I waste no time swinging my arm back, with as much strength as I can muster, hearing the metal reverberate against his flesh and bone.