“I don’t usually let anyone strap me down until the third date,” Finn muttered, rolling his shoulders against the restraints. “But I suppose I can make an exception.”
The torturer scoffed.
Finn sighed. “Least you could do is buy me dinner first.”
The leather yanked tighter. Finn hissed through his teeth as the straps dug into his skin, cutting off any illusion of movement. The room shrank around him, strangling him with the knowledge of impending agony.
Darius watched, his gaze glinting, his expression full of assessment—like an artist appraising his canvas.
“You see, Finnian,” he said, his voice smooth, “this doesn’t have to be your end. It can be a beginning—one where you are hailed as a hero rather than reviled as a traitor. All you have to do is cooperate.”
Finn exhaled slowly, forcing his pulse to steady. He met Darius’s gaze with something close to hatred. “The only new beginning I’m interested in is the one where you’re no longer king.”
Darius’s expression flickered—just for a moment. Proof that once again, Finn’s verbal thrust had landed.
He’s insecure. Extremely insecure. That was useful information—if Finn lived long enough to use it.
Darius’s jaw tightened. Annoyance bled into his features, bitter as acid. “Let’s begin,” he said, masking frustration with cruelty. He gestured to the black-clad torturer—who Finn now mentally named the Duke of Poor Life Choices.
The Duke considered his options before plucking a slender rod from the brazier. The metal gleamed wickedly in the dancing firelight, its surface cherry-red and hissing with heat.
Finn’s breath hitched.
His body knew what was coming, even before it touched his skin. The searing heat warped the air, making it shimmer like a mirage. His pulse hammered, his muscles tense.
“The dragon,” Darius prompted, his tone almost pleasant. “Tell me, and this can all stop.”
The rod inched closer. Finn gritted his teeth, forcing the words past his lips. “There...is no dragon.” A lie that would cost him. But in his heart, it was true. There was no dragon. Only Cedric.
“Liar!” Darius snapped, turning to glare at the torturer.
The rod met flesh. The world shattered.
Pain exploded through Finn’s nerves, a white-hot brand that tore through muscle and bone alike. A jagged breath escaped him, more hiss than scream.
Every instinct shrieked move, fight, stop this! But there was nowhere to go, no escape from the agony tunneling deep, lighting up every raw, exposed nerve.
The stink of burning flesh hit his nose. His flesh.
He would not scream.
Finn bit down on his lip hard enough to taste blood, copper flooding his mouth, mixing with the taste of his own fear.
When the rod finally lifted, his vision swam, spots bursting like dying stars before his eyes. But he was still here. Still breathing. And he still hadn’t given them a damn thing.
Darius leaned in, his voice little more than a whisper. “You’re a fool, Finnian. Throwing away everything for what? A beast and a traitor?”
Finn’s breath shuddered. His skin still burned, pain throbbing deep, a searing ache that refused to fade. His muscles spasmed against the restraints, but there was no escaping the agony.
Don’t answer. Don’t engage.
But the words tore out before he could call them back, ragged between clenched teeth. “Not...a beast,” he ground out. “Cedric...is a good man.”
Darius went still. Too still. Then, slowly, his head tilted. “Cedric?”
Finn’s stomach plummeted.
Darius’s lips curved, slow and satisfied, like a predator that had just scented fresh blood. “You know his name.”
