Page 677 of Coal Hearts

The scratch of metal on metal as it slipped into the ornate lock. The creaking hinges as the door opened.

I couldn’t fucking breathe.

The door screeched, dragging over the stone pavers as the guard wrenched it wide and stepped aside for Victor to climb down the stairs.

We followed.

So many stairs.

A winding corkscrew of never-ending stairs.

Electrical torches flickered like fire on the walls, granting just enough light not to trip but not enough to get my bearings.

Where the hell is he taking us?

Musk and dankness billowed like a swamp.

The air turned dense and earthy, growing colder and colder until my toes turned numb, and claustrophobia clawed at my throat.

The glow of Ily in her stunning white gown was the only thing keeping me sane.

She was my beacon.

My north.

My only.

She glowed, not because of her dress, but because of her spirit. The light in her that tempered my black. Her goodness to my darkness. Her redemption to my remorse.

Peter didn’t say a word as Victor reached the end of the stairs. His shoes clicked and hissed on rock. The sound bounced around us, the tunnel we’d reached as narrow as a fucking coffin.

I swallowed hard.

My skin itched.

It felt as if he’d buried us alive.

Lights snapped on as Victor triggered sensors.

One after another, disrupting the never-ending black with pinpricks of illumination.

I passed by a shadowy tomb to my left.

I crashed against the wall to my right.

A cell.

Bars.

Shackles on the wall and a drain in the middle.

The dungeons.

We’re in his motherfucking dungeons.

Victor snickered from his place at the top of the line. His voice was cool and collected like any good tour guide offering facts to his tourists. “I hope you like the aesthetics, Henri. I spent many hours poring over the blueprints from Linlithgow Palace and its ruins. I ensured my builders gave me a replica. Right down to the sandstone, granite, and oak.”

I couldn’t have talked, even if he held a gun to my head.