“I don’t know,” I say, my voice cracking under the weight of the lie.
Another cut. Deeper this time. My skin splits like parchment, and the hot rush of blood stains what little remains of my shredded gown.
I clench my jaw to keep from crying out, but a sob escapes me, tearing free from the depths of my tattered soul and clawing its way up mythroat. It echoes in the dimly lit chamber, a broken sound that betrays the strength I’ve fought so hard to maintain.
I have no idea how long I’ve been trapped here. Chained to the end of this bed, the cold iron of the gods-damned collar biting into my throat. My wrists ache from the weight of the manacles. Skin rubbed raw against the unyielding metal.
If I had to guess, based on how many times Keres and Jorah have graced me with their company, I’d say three days.
Three days of relentless interrogation.
Three days of biting my tongue until the coppery taste of blood became familiar.
Three days of a loneliness more crushing than I have ever experienced in my life.
Earlier today, they found Raven’s necklace tucked into the front of my gown. Not that I would have used it—I’d made my decision long before I was taken—but its discovery seemed to solidify their suspicions. Jorah redoubled his efforts after that, his patience wearing thinner with every unsatisfactory answer.
At least the others are safe. Nyssa and Myna—they would have escaped by now.
I close my eyes and picture Nyssa’s teasing grin, the way she always finds humor even in the darkest moments. I imagine Myna’s quiet strength, her steady presence a constant anchor. They’re safe now. They have to be.
The thought should bring me comfort, but it only sharpens the ache in my chest. The image of them fleeing into the wilderness, desperate and alone, hollows me out more than the agonizing blade ever could.
My throat is raw, my voice nearly gone from screaming and pleading and, eventually, silence. The skin of my neck feels like fire, sticky with blood where the collar has chafed away at my flesh. The skirt of my gown is in tatters, shredded enough to expose my thighs, now a canvas of cuts and crusted blood. My arms are limp at my sides, muscles screaming with each spasm, and every inch of my body is beaten and bruised.
Except for my face.
After Jorah struck me the first time and split my lip, Keres barked at him to stop. “Don’t ruin something so pretty,” he’d said with a sneer, stepping close enough for me to feel his breath against my skin. His voice had been low, almost tender, like a lover’s.
He hadn’t said it to protect me, though. No, his words carried the weight of a promise, one that sent a spike of dread coursing through my veins.
He still planned on taking me as his bride.
Over my dead fucking body.
I breathe in sharply, the air rattling through my lungs. The room is dim, lit only by a single flickering aura that casts long, ominous shadows across the walls. I stare at the ceiling, refusing to look at Jorah or the blade in his hand, refusing to let him see the fear that coils deep in my chest.
I can’t let them win. Not like this. Not ever.
The memory of spitting blood in his face ignites a sick, twisted joy in me I can barely contain. My lips threaten to curl into a smile, but I force it down, smothering it before it shows. My defiance is the only weapon I have left, and I won’t let him take that from me too.
“Give us the room, Jorah,” Keres commands, his voice smooth and unaffected as he leans casually against the wall in his usual spot, like he owns the air I breathe. He’s always there. Always watching. He relishes being an observer of the pain he orchestrates, a conductor rather than an instrument.
Jorah stands without a word, his face void of emotion, and walks out of the room. I don’t watch him leave. Instead, my body sags against the footboard behind me, grateful for the momentary reprieve. The pain ebbs just enough to let me think, though the sharp ache in my ribs and the sting of countless cuts tether me to my suffering. My eyes lock on to Keres as he finally moves, kicking off the wall and closing the distance between us with a predator’s ease.
Hatred burns in my chest, simmering and boiling over as he approaches. My blood feels like lava in my veins, heating with every step he takes. Jorah may be the one wielding the blades, but Keres…Keres is the true danger in the room. He’s the one who orders the cuts, theone who decides how deep they go. He’s the reason the blades bite into my skin at all.
“Comfortable?” he asks, his voice a cruel purr as he stops to loom over me.
I meet his eyes, hating the way they gleam with amusement, but there’s something else there. Something darker. Older.
“There’s something poetic, don’t you think?” He crouches down, elbows resting on his knees, his hands dangling between them. “To have you chained in my father’s favorite little hideaway. But then, I know this place better than anyone.”
I glare at him, refusing to play whatever game he’s orchestrating now, but he sees through it. He always does.
“You don’t know where you are, do you?” he says, one brow arching as if he’s asking about the weather. “This room. These walls.” He gestures around, the movement slow, deliberate. “This is where it all started. Where I became me.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and immovable as the thick stone surrounding us. My gaze flickers toward the floor, toward the faint scrapes in the stone. Marks left behind by something—or someone.
