Together, we ascended the stairs and returned to the parlor where Layla still lay unconscious, her breath shallow, her limbs slack.
“Aw,” Balthazar murmured, crouching beside her. “She looks like an angel.”
“She looks like my next unfortunate victim,” I said sweetly, grabbing her ankles while he lifted her by the torso.
She was far lighter than Malik—almost weightless, as if she were already halfway to the grave. Carrying her was effortless.
The cells shimmered faintly with protective enchantments, casting an otherworldly sheen across the stone. They stood separated by a long, narrow corridor. Cobwebs dangled from above, swaying in the cold draft that reeked of mildew, wet stone, and rot. A single lantern sputtered at the far end, its dying flame casting just enough light to glimpse the scatter of rats skittering along the walls.
We dropped Layla into the cell opposite Malik’s and stood shoulder to shoulder, staring into the dimness.
Two enemies, shackled in silence, gift-wrapped in chains.
I laced my fingers through Balthazar’s.
“This,” I whispered, breathless with anticipation, “is going to be so much fun.”
His gaze dragged over me, heavy-lidded and dark with hunger. “I could fuck you right here. Wouldn’t that be delicious?” he murmured. “To be caught in a depraved act the moment she wakes?”
His fingers danced along my throat like a spider tracing its web. I shivered.
“The best,” I said with a smirk, then paused as something shifted in the corner of my vision.
A gray rat sat in the shadows, watching me. Its red eyes gleamed like embers, unblinking. Disgust coiled in my chest.
“But I’d prefer somewhere cleaner,” I sniffed. “I do have standards.”
Balthazar chuckled and gave a mock bow, one hand gesturing toward the corridor. “Then by all means, my love, lead the way.”
“Thank you, darling,” I said smoothly. As we turned to go, I tossed Layla a final sneer.
“See you soon.”
My first act of torture was to bind Layla to a thick timber pole in her cell, her wrists and ankles cinched so tightly she could barely twitch. There would be no escape. For days, I subjected her to every torment I could think of—whips that sang through the air, branding irons that hissed against flesh. Her cries echoed off the damp, grim walls, a symphony of pain and despair.
But it wasn’t enough.
Her suffering wasn’t satisfying me the way I thought it would. I wanted more than her pain—I wanted to devour her spirit, unravel her mind thread by thread.
So, I changed tactics.
I whispered lies into her ears—that Malik had abandoned her, that no one was coming, and that the guards outside would never allow her release, though we had no guards. She didn’t need to know that. I offered her scraps of hope, telling her that if she weregood and obedient, she might be free… only to snatch that hope away with cold cruelty moments later.
I could feel her resolve starting to falter. Her defiance wavered slightly, but she still refused to beg. She would not plead. She gave me nothing—not a single secret about the daggers. And that made her all the more infuriating.
After days of fruitless torment, I found myself in the drawing room with Balthazar, both of us worn thin by our respective captives.
“How’s Malik?” I asked, reclining on the velvet settee, swirling wine in my glass.
“Useless folly,” Balthazar snarled, tossing his arm aside with a bitter sneer. “He won’t break. But I’m not finished. I have contacts—people who craft brews designed to weaken the will, to make a soul beg for death to escape the madness. I was thinking of reaching out.”
I sat up, intrigued. “Or,” I said, “we go a different route. I knew a man once—Raul Costa. An Italian apothecary from centuries past. His family has perfected the art of poisons for generations. Not just death—they create things that can melt a mind, peel back memory, torment the soul. If I time travel to Raul’s era, I can return with something... exquisite.”
Balthazar’s face flushed crimson with rage. “No!” he roared, his voice cracking like thunder through the stone chamber. It reverberated off the walls, swallowing the silence. “I know Costa. He’s a fucking Timehunter. I forbid it. You’re not going anywhere.”
He advanced on me, slow and menacing—his towering form casting a long shadow over mine, like a wrathful god preparing to strike.
“Everyone keeps whispering about these Timehunters,” I snapped, stamping my foot. “Who the hell are they, and why is everyone so terrified of them?”
