UP THE HILL

PROLOGUE

Through the entrance of the cave behind her, decadent rays of moonlight pierced the night sky and fought their way through the brewing storm to reach her, to strengthen her as they seeped into her skin.

A man kneeled before her in his ripped clothing, his head bowed so low, his trembling chin touched his chest. His long dark hair, tangled and blood soaked, curtained his face, hiding his swollen eyes, hollowed cheeks, and a beard now soaked with tears.

Grime and dried blood caked him from head to toe, yet more blood oozed from the gash in his abdomen where she had repeatedly stabbed him moments ago, forming a puddle at her feet. He clutched at the dagger still embedded deep in his liver as he trembled and sobbed. The addicting aroma of fear seeped through his pores and into the thick air around them.

"Sweetheart," she cooed, gently brushing the grimy stands of hair from his forehead.

"I have good news for you."

He raised his head and looked up at her with expectant eyes.

"I've found a new toy, soo..."she smiled ever so sweetly at him.

"Today is the big day! Isn't that amazing?" She chirped.

His face lit up with joy, tears once again welling up in his bloodshot eyes, a faint scent of hope beginning to trickle into the air.

Oh, how she loved the scent of hope- being strangled and choked to fatality.

"Don't you want to know who the new toy is, before you die? You happen to be related to her."

She heard his heart shudder in dread as realization settled in.

Exactly sixty days ago, this man had crept up the hill and into her cave, silent as death. But she had sensed him, smelled his familiar scent in the wind. So she had pretended to be asleep as he had cautiously made his way to her, unsheathed his blade, and raised his arm to deliver what was supposed to be a deathblow.

A part of her had wished that he turn around and walk away, for his own sake.

But he had not.

A decision, she knew, he had regretted ever since, because she had seen it in his eyes the moment she had opened hers and met his wild gaze. His arm had frozen midair, the poisoned blade, aimed at her heart, hovering merely inches above its target.

Instinctively, he had struggled to yank it free, had tugged at it with his free hand, but failed to free himself from the impenetrable black mist firmly clamping his arm in place.

He had been a hefty warrior then, ferocious and fearless. About two feet taller than she and more muscular than any other man she had come across; an aura of strength and arrogance radiating from him even then.

He had then threatened her, had told her that she was a wicked witch, unworthy of anyone's love or mercy. That he didn't trust the devil's spiteful daughter. That a heartless creature could never keep its promise.

Nothing she hadn't heard thousands of times before. But all those words coming this man's mouth had been responsible for something that had never happened before. They had broken a heart she knew she didn't possess, and stirred emotions she knew she couldn't host.

One of the most important things she had learned in her extremely long life was that death was too generous a sentence for someone you wanted to suffer.

So she had simply chained him to a wall in the cave, starved him, and subjected him to mild (according to her) torture for two weeks. He had been angry at first, cursing and throwing profanities at her. Declaring he wasn't afraid of pain or death.