Fleshtalker slowly withdrew the dagger, wiping the blood on the hem of my shirt. His movements were careful. Lazy, even. As though he had all the time in the world.
Well, that was fine. We were all immortal here.
“Not personal enough, I see.” He tilted his head, considering me. Then his hands gripped the front of my shirt, ripping it down the middle.
“I liked this shirt,” I rasped through the blood that was pooling in my mouth.
Fleshtalker’s nostrils flared, betraying his frustration.
His fist shot out, catching me by surprise as my head whipped to the side. Blood sprayed from my mouth, splattering the already filthy wall.
I worked my jaw experimentally, savoring the pain. Most people tried to distance themselves from it when they were being tortured — bringing to mind better times to act as a distraction.
I could not afford to think of better times. They all involvedher.
But then Fleshtalker sighed, and I stiffened as he traced a finger down the center of my bare chest. His featherlight touch reminded me of Lyra, and the realization hit me a second too late as the shadow of a memory ghosted over my skin.
Lyra, in the study at the Forest House, her hands roaming down my torso.
I snapped my awareness back to the present, cursing myself for my own weakness.
Fleshtalker’s mouth lifted in a sneer. “So she is your whore. I expected as much.”
His fingers curled over my shoulders, chipped yellow nails digging into my skin. Using my body for leverage, he jerked his knee up to connect with my groin.
A wave of nausea hit me at the explosion of pain, my vision blackening around the edges.
He snatched my hand before I could fully recover, and a memory surfaced, unbidden.
Me, lying between Lyra’s legs, one palm splayed across her stomach as I caressed her breast with the other.
You already know how to find me, love. You need only reach out and let me in.
No.
It was too much. Too close.
I threw up my shadows, useless as they were, and a low growl slipped from my throat. After days of torture, Iwas weakened and exhausted — unable to keep the residue of my own emotions leaking out with the memory.
Fleshtalker made a sound of disgust, though I could practically taste his satisfaction. “As delightful as it is to see you pliant at last, this isterriblyboring.”
There was a soft click as he released my manacles, the spikes withdrawing from my flesh. Blackness swam in my vision as the floor rushed up to greet me, and I grunted as my nose collided with stone.
Fleshtalker grabbed a fistful of my hair, dragging me to my feet and shoving me toward the shallow stone basin at the opposite end of the chamber.
My body recoiled at the smell of the water, which stank of death and rot. I braced myself for the frigid cold and the agonizing burn in my lungs.
They’d drowned me eight times already, and it was never pleasant.
This time, when Fleshtalker shoved my head underwater, despair swamped me, and my shadows retracted.
This was why he was Semphrys’s most feared sycophant. Fleshtalker always got results.
Pain lanced through my scalp as my head broke the surface, water sluicing down my face. I sucked in a breath as he pushed me back down, pain splintering my skull as he rammed my face into the stone rim of the basin.
I howled as my nose shattered anew, blood pouring into my mouth.
Suddenly, I wasn’t in that infernal cell. I was standing on a walkway over the marsh, staring at Lyra through the driving rain. Her hair was plastered to her face. Water slid down her perfect cheeks.
