I know, I know, I already have a WIP I'm supposed to be writing... But I'm too excited about this to not write it. This story is very heavily influenced by the song I Dare You by Bea Miller, hence the title, so I ask that you listen to the song on YouTube or wherever before reading this-or at the very least, read the lyrics somewhere. I think you'll get some insight into Nairi's head and also into where I'm taking this story. I'm going to note now that this is not going to be a light, easy read. My characters have been through a lot of shit and are going to be dealing with that shit and going through more shit. I'll post appropriate warnings at the top of each chapter.
That said, I don't want to scare anyone off, only give a heads up, and I am very excited to share this with you guys. Also, before I forget, I am looking for a beta for this story, so if you're interested, please PM me!
Disclaimer: I speak not a word of Russian, nor do I have a solid grasp on Scottish and Irish accents. Google translate and various sites are responsible for my butchering of these lovely languages. All Elvish popping up in the future is mine, though. I'm enough of a nerd to speak it.
This is intentionally an extremely short chapter, and it is set in the middle of the story, again very intentionally. Let me know what you think!
Warnings: Blood, language, violence, bit of torture
Alright, enough, I'm done rambling now. Promise.
More blood spattered down onto the absurdly white concrete below her, and Nairi almost laughed. Cleaning this'll be just a riot for somebody. Instead of laughing, though, she coughed, a fat string of bloody saliva dangling from her lips. She shifted slightly, although she really had very limited options for making herself more comfortable, and she knew nothing she did would help. Her wrists, chained to the wall a few feet behind her, were beginning to go numb, and by now her exhaustion was such that she was letting herself hang forward by those chained wrists, which certainly wasn't helping them.
She ran her tongue over her teeth, wondering if they were bloodstained too, and spat onto the concrete floor in front of her toes, making a face at the relentless taste of iron in her mouth. God, there was blood everywhere. Not even a concerning amount, really, but enough spattered around that it made for a decidedly unpleasant place to be.
The cruel hand came down across her face again, sending her head whipping to the side, long strands of her dark brown hair flying into her mouth, open in an involuntary gasp. The hit had rattled her jaw and jarred her neck, and she was sure there was more blood in her mouth than before, though she couldn't really tell at this point.
His hand, callused and rough from years of physical labor, grabbed onto her chin and forced her roughly to face him. "Look at me, bitch."
She cursed his deadly quiet voice, the silky calm tone that so opposed his hands. He was the only person she'd ever run across who could purr insults like that. Nairi growled, looking deliberately out of the side of her eyes, avoiding his gaze, and spat blood into his face. "Awa' 'n bile yer head, doaty rocket," she growled, her usually mild Scottish accent coming out in full force. "Yer a goddamn bollix an' a feckin' pox, I'll no' be takin' orders from ya, an' you can fuck the hell off." Nairi gritted her teeth, spitting the last out in perfectly clear English, just to ensure that she got her point across.
From just out of her line of sight, she heard a familiar, vaguely approving huff of air, the closest to a laugh she'd get in this situation. Even though Nairi knew he couldn't see her face, she bared her bloodstained teeth in an unpleasant approximation of a smile, the best she could offer with her swollen face. She managed only to widen the split in her lip, feeling a stinging sensation and more warm blood from the cut making its way down her chin.
For her insolence, though, she was dealt a heavy-handed blow to the gut, one that left her gasping and breathing through her nose as she willed herself not to vomit, though the contents of her stomach at this point were little more than bile and the blood she'd swallowed. Before she could even get her breath back, he was at her again, this time with some pointy little silver knife that he dragged down her left bicep. A shallow cut, one that would bleed and scar and burn like hell, but wouldn't be enough to kill her.
"Why don't we try this again, Nairi?"
She hated the way he said her name. "Go to hell."
"Give it to me, Nairi." He purred at her.
"Idi k chertu, ty, zhalkiy ublyudok! Ya nikogda vam nichego, i vy mozhete otvalit' obratno k materi shlyukhu!" Anybody who knew Nairi knew that getting her mad enough to speak Russian was a death sentence. He didn't react, though, merely chuckling. She knew he couldn't comprehend the words she was hurling at him. She could tell him to fuck off until she was blue in the face, and it still wouldn't do her any good.
"Now, now, Nairi," he tsked. "That can't have been very complimentary, can it? Didn't your mother ever teach you the importance of good manners?" He swung his fist again with those last words, and she felt the delicate bones of her nose splinter under his knuckles. Damn it.
She heard a quiet, restrained intake of breath from behind her and sighed. This was hardly the worst situation she'd found herself in over the reckless, destructive years. But she knew he wouldn't see it that way. She could only guess at what past devastation she must be reminding him of, and she knew he likely wouldn't tell her. Nairi blinked, trying to clear her eyes of the involuntary tears, and spat blood at her feet again. "I'm fine, mo shoírghrá."
Nairi then turned her attention back to him and glared up at her captor, untamed fire still burning in her dark eyes. "Damn you." she growled out, the accent she usually kept to a minimum creeping back into her words as her anger swelled. "Damn ya an' yer obsession. Damn yer heartlessness. Damn ya straight to hell, ye sociopathic bastard."
He chuckled, only infuriating her further. His rough, calloused hand gripped her chin again, forcing her to look at him, and he bent forward until his nose was no more than an inch away from hers. "You're stronger than I thought, I'll give you that. Stubborn, resilient, Irish bitch." He smiled, and she tried in vain to pull her head out of his grip, away from his foul breath.
"But you must see," he continued, "you must see you'll never leave this place." He let her go to spread his arms, gesturing to the dimly lit, gray prison. "If you surrender now I'll likely let you live, and your blond boy toy over there too."
Nairi swallowed, her entire body shaking with rage. "You fucking bastard." Her hands were scraped and bruised, blood from her raw wrists running down them in rivulets. Her icy fingertips had been mostly numb for the last hour, but she could feel a slight warmth coming back to them now. Involuntary panic swept through her, her stomach flipping in fear, and she jerked her arms hard against the chains, using the pain to ground her. I will not be afraid. I will not be afraid! She mentally screamed at herself, shaking her curtain of dirty, dark brown hair out of her eyes to glare up at him with renewed fire. I am Donovan O'Callahan's daughter, and I will not be afraid.
A cool breeze began to stir her tangled hair.
The Russian Nairi speaks, via Google Translate, is "Go to hell, you miserable bastard! I'm never giving you anything, and you can fuck off back to your whore mother!"
Mo shoírghrá is Irish, an endearment meaning "My eternal love" or alluding to a soul mate, etc.
