The Death of Duty

Chapter 12 - Withdrawal

Later that night, Corvyn had come to my room with a few bandages and some sort of cream. I knew it hadn't come from anyone's direct orders—Corvyn was bringing me medical supplies without anyone knowing.

I rinsed and cleaned my countless injuries, and then she dabbed the white cream over the cuts and gouges. Some from Feyd, some from his harpies.

Her hands were light as they worked, attempting to minimize our contact. I just sat on the edge of the bed as she worked, cringing as the cream stung.

Her hands were light on my skin, like she was trying to minimize our contact. I just sat on the edge of the bed as she worked.

"The Na-Baron returned earlier today," she said quietly, the words almost intangible.

I frowned. "He is here now?" Unease seeped into me. Feyd was not going to be happy when he found out what happened to his pets.

She nodded, dipping her fingers back into the tin. "He and the baron have been speaking privately for many hours."

A million questions were on the forefront of my mind, but the most blaring one was why he hadn't appeared to drag me from my chambers to torture me again. Or if he knew about what had happened today.

My stomach growled and Corvyn's eyes shot to mine, her shyness temporarily gone. Then, as if she realized, they shot back to the floor, her head almost facing straight down.

"Should I call for a guard to escort you to dinner?" she asked quietly.

I shook my head quickly. They would deny the request anyway, and I did not want anyone to know I was hungry. For all anyone knew, I was eating my meals.

"I have no appetite." It was the truth, but perhaps Corvyn didn't understand the true meaning. I hadn't eaten for days now, and I was not planning on breaking that streak.

Hopefully my body didn't give out before I could finish up here.

Corvyn worked in silence for the rest of the time, and when she finished, I thanked her before she slipped out the door.

I leaned back on my bed, eyes squeezed in pain at the movement. I refused to look in the mirror this time, knowing what I'd find. I looked absolutely horrendous. Scratched, bruised, cut, ragged. Probably as if I'd been dropped miles in the air from an ornithopter and landed on my face.

Whether the baron had tried to kill me or not using the harpies remained to be seen, but there was no doubt he had every intention of seeing me taken apart piece by piece. He had been disappointed by the end of it, I was sure. He hadn't expected me to walk out of there. Literally and figuratively.

The door opened and I jolted upright, my body singing in pain. My joints seemed to grind against one another.

I blinked, wondering if the blurry figure who stood in the room now was real or if I was imagining it. If it truly was him, he would have thrown open the door and made his presence known, as he always seemed to do.

"You look exquisitely brutal," Feyd-Rautha said, the tenor of his voice low and raspy. I blinked twice more, just to clear the fog settling over my mind. He stood halfway into the room, a fine charcoal military jacket fitted over his broad shoulders, an emblem of the Harkonnen sigil embroidered over his bicep—the sharp streak tapering up from the half circle almost a warning, a reminder and threat of just who wore the Harkonnen sigil.