The Nymph King (Atlantis #3)(49)

He looked like a fallen angel.

A dying, bloody, pain-entrenched fallen angel.

Blood oozed from the thick gashes on his chest and thigh. His skin, she knew from seeing him earlier, was usually tanned. Now it was pale, tinted slightly blue because he'd gone into a mild form of shock. She was a surgeon, but she would have preferred her tools in her hospital with her nurses. Not the jars of oil and sand she'd been given, not the nonsterile environment, not the lughead standing guard at the door. Still, Brenna couldn't let her patient die. She wouldn't.

She had been terrified since she'd been taken by these giant, hulking beasts, but for the first time since entering this... whatever it was, she felt in control. Like herself. Confident and in her element.

Brenna motioned to the guard stationed at the door, and he approached her. She didn't back away, but forced herself to stand her ground as she signed what she needed.

His face scrunched with confusion, and he held up his hands, a command for her to be still. "I do not understand what you are doing. Can you not speak?"

She sighed inwardly. Her vocal cords had been severely damaged years ago. There weren't any scars on the outside; no, her scars were internal. She'd been attacked - a blurred, blackened, hated memory she could not allow herself to relive at the moment, not if she hoped to function - and while she could speak, her voice was... ugly.

"Needle," she croaked. "Thread." Primitive that he obviously was, he probably wouldn't know a scalpel from a butter knife. "Operating tools."

He cringed at the rough, broken sound, but nodded and raced off. When he returned a short while later, he handed her a lumpy black satchel. She unrolled it, finding a bronze scalpel, long, thin hooks and several iron needles.

"Fire," she said. "Hot water."

Understanding, he grabbed a lit sconce from the wall and tossed it into the hearth. The logs inside quickly caught flame, crackling and burning. After he had gathered the bowl of water, she heated the instruments over the fire.

Once everything was as sterilized as she could get it, her hands scrubbed clean, she at last approached her patient, ready to act. He had yet to move, had yet to make a single sound. His features were relaxed, unaffected.

That both elated and worried her. At least he wouldn't feel the pain of her needle. But such a deep sleep... Brenna squared her shoulders and got to work. She cut off his pants, cleaned the gaping wounds on his legs and chest, and did her best to repair the torn tissue - which was in better shape than she'd dared hope. Sounded easy, sounded quick, but she was by his side for several hours and sweat beaded over her skin. Toward the end, fatigue shook her arms and back.

That will have to do. She would have liked to give him a transfusion but knew such a thing was impossible here. The man who had chosen her last night, Shivawn, had attempted to ease her distress by explaining where she was and why she'd been brought here. Of course, his explanation had only intensified her fear.

Nymphs. Atlantis. Sex. At first she hadn't wanted to believe him. However, after everything she'd witnessed today, she no longer had the luxury of disbelief. Sword fights and bejeweled walls. Silk pillows lining every wall and warriors having sex atop them. Mermaids and a crystal ceiling that produced light. Women going mad, becoming sex starved.

Shivawn had expected the same easy (and enthusiastic) response from her. How surprised he'd been to be met with slaps and kicks and, she was ashamed to say, sobbing. But he'd finally left her alone. He'd been oddly... sweet about the entire situation. Surprisingly protective.

Still, he regretted his choice already; he had to. This morning she'd caught glimpses of other warriors (naked) in bed with their chosen (also naked). Some of them hadn't been sleeping. Shivawn had to want that for himself, but she couldn't give it to him. She simply couldn't.

Brenna had only allowed him to pick her so that she would be taken away from the large group of men. One warrior she could (possibly) fight. But all of them? No way.

She sighed. For the next several hours, she remained seated beside the unconscious man - Joachim was his name, she recalled - sponging a warm, wet rag over his forehead and doing everything in her power to make him comfortable and keep him from getting cold. As much blood as he'd lost, he was susceptible to hypothermia.

"Brenna," she suddenly heard Shivawn say from the door. He sounded hopeful. "It is time I took you to my chamber."

Her heart kicked into overdrive. Remain calm. Bit by bit she turned to face him. He stood beside the guard, who was pretending to study the wall. Shivawn was a handsome man, with brown hair and green eyes, and a part of her wished she was a normal woman who could enjoy someone like him. Truly, just looking at him made her feel... achy inside. But she shook her head.

His shoulders slumped, and his lips compressed into a thin line. "Why do you continue to deny me? Have I hurt you in any way?"

She shook her head a second time. He hadn't, and that still shocked her.

He stepped forward. "I only wish to give you pleasure."

Again, a shake. "I stay."

He'd heard her voice before, so he didn't cringe this time as he had at first. Would her continued refusal cause Shivawn to erupt? Would he try to force her? Morph from nice guy to beast? A terrible trembling began in her limbs and spread to her stomach, twisting and turning.

His expression softened as he peered at her. "You do not understand the ways of the nymphs, Brenna. We must be with women or we grow weak," he explained patiently, as he would to a child. "I am growing weak, while the others become strong."