Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 117336 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117336 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Here we go. It's another version of hey, pretty lady, you look like you're all alone and in need of a sugar daddy. I turn back to my knitting. "If this is you trying to get the courage up to rape me, know that I will castrate you in your sleep."
He laughs, the sound hard and sharp. "I am merely assessing this place. Learning what I need to in order to take it over."
"Sure you are." I flick my needles again, determined to ignore him. "Unless you're going to pay me for my services, it's time for me to send you on your way. My clinic can't afford to support freeloaders. It was nice to meet you, Azar. I hope you have a lovely life, I really do."
"That's all I get? After weeks of time spent together?" His words are accusing.
"Yup." I've learned the hard way that when men get possessive, it's best to just neutralize them. I ignore him, my expression calm. "You're a patient. I'm a healer. I healed you, now you're no longer my patient. So the circle of life goes."
"But your clinic…it is poor?" There's a calculating note in his voice.
I glance up at him and notice that he's leaning in toward me. In any other man, it would be menacing and pushy, but I've wiped this man's ass for weeks now when he couldn't take care of himself. He's still weak as a kitten. He just isn't good with boundaries. So I lean in, irritated, and practically get in his face. "Listen. I don't care if you think my clinic is poor. This is the best clinic in the state. Hell, it might be the only clinic left in the state. So you take what you can get and you say, 'Thank you, Melina' and you go on your way, all right?"
He grins at me. It's not a comfortable grin, just like the hand he strokes over his chin comes across as somewhat menacing instead of contemplative. "Thank you, Melina," he parrots. "And I'm not trying to offend you. I'm trying to figure out your price."
My jaw clenches. "I'm not sucking your dick, no matter what you offer." Really, the fucking nerve of this white man.
"You misunderstand me," Azar says softly, continuing to stroke his too-pale chin with his too-pale fingers. His fingernails are just as unnatural as the rest of him, shorn short and blunted, and thick as horse hooves. "I am going to walk this city when I leave here—"
"Good for you, buddy," I say slyly back to him, not backing away an inch.
"—and I am going to determine the easiest way to take it," he says, all confidence. "A week from now, this will be my fort, my people. They will bow to me."
It takes everything I have not to roll my eyes. "Sounds like a fever dream to me."
"Perhaps." His strange eyes glitter. "But when the city is mine, I will need a consort."
Is that what this was leading to? He wants a woman at his side? "Tempting, but no."
Azar gestures at my clinic. "What if I stocked this full of everything you needed? What if I gave you beautiful clothes and jewelry? Would you come willingly to my bed?"
"Still no."
"Name your price, then."
This man is pissing me off. I glare at him, no longer playing around. It’s hard enough to live in the After, doubly hard when you’re a black woman. Men don’t like to take ‘no’ for an answer but I can handle myself. There’s a knife close nearby and I won’t hesitate to use it if he doesn’t fuck off with this. "I don't know who gave you the impression that I'm for sale. I'm not. So quit asking, because the answer will always be no. And if you try anything, I will fucking castrate you."
His lip curls. "I do not need to rape. My consort must be willing. She will show the people here that I am one of them. She will cement my place as lord of this…hovel." He flicks a hand in the air, indicating the city. "I have been in your world for a while now, and I have decided that it's better to reign over garbage than to not reign at all." He gets to his feet. "So tell me your price."
"Fuck you," I say, positioning my knitting needles into a weapon and pointing them at him. "I'm not for sale."
The smile he gives me is cold and ruthless. "Everyone is for sale. We simply haven't figured out your price yet, my consort."
A week later, Azar attacks the city with six dragons at his command.
I'd forgotten all about his crazy rambling. I've heard so much nonsense from people over the years, people that can no longer get their mental health medications, or people that have had their minds snapped by the Rift, or everything after it. We're all a little bit mad these days, so when a weak, newly healed man talks about how he's going to take the fort, I dismiss it as nonsense.