Netriet’s cheek pressed against the cold stone floor. Her breathing was shallow and labored. Sweat beads glistened on her forehead and cheeks as she trembled with a fever. Horror assaulted her as the memories of the last round of Philippe’s experimentations on her surfaced. In his attempt to master the workings of the collar, she lost her left arm.
She knew the second the collar began to spread its needles and poison through her hand, and she remained silent. Through sheer force of will, she had not cried out when the pain washed through her arm like water running down a pipe. Another few moments, and it would have reached her heart. But no such luck was hers. Philippe noticed just in time and chopped her arm off in one swift slice from the dagger he carried in his belt.
The flesh pulled together quickly over her short stump, her quick healing capabilities preventing her yet again from dying. The last thing she'd seen before losing consciousness had been Philippe removing the collar from the hand of her severed arm. She had thought that at least if that happened again she would have no more fingers and the torturous experiments would be over.
The warm nectar of blood filling Netriet's mouth brought her awake. Through the haze of wounded, feverish exhaustion, she fought to reclaim her wits. Philippe wanted her to regain her strength so he could continue to torture her. Her eyes dragged themselves open slowly and shock roused her further. It was Philippe who fed her from a small cut on his wrist, no low ranking foot soldier or serving wench, but Philippe himself. How could he be so foolish?
Their eyes met, and he smiled knowingly. “Go ahead. Bite me. I can see what you’re thinking. It won’t work. I won’t fall victim of your brainwashing persuasion,” he said confidently.
Netriet hesitated, wondering if she should try it anyway. She sank her teeth into his flesh, took one strong pull from his veins, and spat the mouthful into his face. For a long moment, she hoped. His eyes sparkled with rage. Then he blinked and smiled at her, getting to his feet and wiping the blood from his face.
“Still clever, Nettie, even in your physical state. I’m impressed. I’m not going to kill you in a rage, though. And I’m not going to let you die of starvation while I still need you to help me master the trick of that damn little thing.”
“A girl can dream,” she said feebly.
Philippe barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “If only you were a bitch. I’d have made you my queen.”
Netriet smiled weakly. “Yeah. If only.”
Philippe laughed again and picked her up off the floor. To her amazement, he laid her down on his bed and covered her up with a wolf pelt. She was too weak to kick the disgusting thing off so she tried to ignore that she was lying under a corpse. The pelt was warm and soft and she was soon asleep again. She had strange wolfish dreams and the traces of Philippe's blood, still in her mouth, went down her throat, giving her back a small measure of strength.