Page 93 of The Vespertine Treaty

"Rich?" he sneered, looming over me. He grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked my head back, forcing me to look at his yellowing teeth. "You think you have power here, little bitch? You are a package. A parcel to be opened by Master.”

He leaned down, his face inches from mine, his breath reeking of onions and stale ale.

"Malathor said to keep you alive. He didn't say I couldn't have a taste." His eyes dropped to the thin silk of my nightgown, torn at the hem and stained with the grime of the floor. "You keep running that pretty mouth, demanding things, and I’ll gag you with my cock. Do you understand?"

Terror, cold and primal, washed over me. It was a familiar terror—the kind that lived in the marrow of my bones, planted there by a father who had looked at me with the same disdain.

"I understand," I whispered, tears leaking from my eyes.

"Good." He shoved me back against the wall, my head cracking against the stone. “Now shut the fuck up."

He stormed out, slamming the door. The lock engaged with a finality that echoed in my soul.

I curled into a ball, pulling my knees to my chest, trembling so violently my teeth chattered. I wiped the blood from my lip, staring at the stain on my hand.

Cain.

The name floated to the surface of my mind, unbidden.

It was ironic, a twisted cosmic joke. I was sitting in a room that offered the comforts of a dungeon, terrified of a male threatening to assault me, and my heart was crying out for the Prince of Death.

Cain was a monster. I knew that. He was violence incarnate, a storm of shadows and temper. But he had never looked at me like that. When Cain looked at me, it was with intensity, yes, with possession, certainly—but never with that greasy, dehumanising hunger. Cain’s touch was heavy, but it wasn't cruel. It was a demand, not a theft.

I squeezed my eyes shut, rocking back and forth.He would kill them,I thought, a vicious comfort blooming in my chest.If he saw this... if he saw the bruise forming on my face... he would tear this male apart.

I clung to that image. I clung to the idea of Cain’s rage like a shield.

Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to stretch, twisting into unnatural shapes.

The lock clicked again.

I flinched, scrambling back into the corner, covering my chest with my arms.

But it wasn't the guard.

The door opened smoothly, and the air in the room instantly grew colder, heavier. The scent of musk and expensive wine drifted in, masking the smell of damp straw.

Malathor entered, looking immaculate in a velvet coat, a cruel smile playing on his lips. Beside him, Rosette glided in, her purple dress a slash of violence against the grey stone.

"Still in one piece?" Rosette drawled, her eyes raking over me with boredom. "I told the guard he could cut a finger off if you were annoying."

"We need her pristine, darling,” Malathor said, though his eyes were cold as he looked at me. "Mostly."

He stepped closer, and I tried to press myself through the stone wall. The chains clinked, a pitiful sound of captivity.

"You haven't eaten," Malathor noted, nudging the bowl of sludge with his polished boot. "A pity. You'll need your strength."

"Go to hell," I croaked.

Malathor chuckled. "I own this hell, Ophelia. You are merely renting space."

He gestured to Rosette. "Leave us."

My heart stopped. I looked at the Cenite—the one who hated me, who wanted me dead—and for a split second, I wanted to beg her to stay. Because being alone with Malathor felt infinitely worse.

Rosette narrowed her eyes, her jealousy radiating off her like heat waves. She lives to be the center of attention. "Why? Do you plan to play with the toy before the Prince of Death arrives?"

"I plan to inspect the merchandise," Malathor said sharply. "Go. Check the perimeter wards. I feel... disturbances."