Chapter 2

Seris’s POV

He picked up a pair of gloves from the table beside him—a table already crowded with gleaming, cruel instruments—and slid them on. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure he could hear it. Calmly, he lifted my right hand and secured a silver cuff around my wrist. Its cold metal bit into my flesh, and I howled, the sound echoing off the damp stones. As my wrist burned, he snapped the cuff shut with a sharp click.

Now I understood why his hands were covered: the cuffs were silver, and silver burned like iron. He clasped the second cuff around my left wrist, and my vision blurred with pain. He watched me silently for a moment, his lips curling into a triumphant smile as tears streamed down my cheeks. Then he strode to a rack of whips, his steps echoing ominously.

My back trembled at the sight of them—some were braided leather, others studded with glinting silver spikes. I didn’t know which terrorized me more: the numbing agony of the cuffs or the thought of those blades tearing into my flesh. I forced my lips shut to smother any screams, but each lash of pain seemed to demand expression. The ache deepened until I feared I would crack.

“Do you want me to?” Eirwen’s soft voice whispered in my mind, offering relief I dared not hope for.

“Please,” I managed to think back. Relief bloomed in my chest as I felt Eirwen’s healing magic take hold. The wounds on my back began to close, the warm sting of blood drying and scabbing over. I allowed myself a brief, secret smile—surely even the Beta would consider this mercy appropriate. After all, Malrik Corebane himself had warned me not to heal while being punished, but what did he know of my limits?

Bastian Corell’s thunderous growl cut through my fleeting comfort. “Did you just heal yourself? How dare you!” His whip cracked through the air and slammed into my torso, the silver-spiked lashes burning and tearing across my skin. I screamed, arching against the pain.

He sniffed in feigned disgust, then turned and plucked a syringe from the table. “I will break you,” he promised. I barely had time to register the flash of his gleaming blade before he drove the needle into my right thigh. I felt a cold wash of agony spread, then paralysis creeping through my leg. My limbs went heavy, unresponsive.

Before I could plead, he jabbed the second syringe into my left thigh. The poison—silver infused with wolfsbane—flooded my veins, chilling and numbing me until I could no longer stand. My arms felt like lead, my thoughts slowing. I could hardly sense Eirwen’s warmth at all.

He stepped forward, a cruel knife in hand. With a vicious twist, he plunged it into my belly. I gasped, every muscle in my body cramping around the blade. He laughed, a sound without humor. “Let’s see you heal yourself now.” Blood welled around the wound, but no magical warmth came to soothe it.

He moved lower, ripping open the hem of my skirt. My thighs lay bare before him. Then, flick by flick, he carved letters into my flesh. I was too weak, too drenched in pain, to discern what he wrote. Each cut seared like fire, rivulets of blood trickling down my legs. My vision darkened at the edges, but he plunged the knife again, deeper this time. I cried out.

He gripped my jaw, jerking my face up until my tears fell on his boots. “Why are you still in this pack?” he sneered. “He should have gotten rid of you long ago.” I tried to protest, but my voice failed me.

His voice dropped to a growl. “Then you had a child—and dared to claim it was his. You and your useless mutt should be thrown to the rogues.” He spat on the floor. “Tsk, tsk. Look at you, pathetic little fool. No one wants you. You and that bastard mutt of yours are cursed. What kind of man mates with one who shifts so early? This is the moon goddess’s punishment for your weakness.”

Fury ignited me despite the pain. “Leave my child out of this!” I croaked. “She’s done nothing to you!”

He slapped me hard, my cheek stinging as if aflame. “Bold of you to talk back!” He dragged the knife along my side, leaving a jagged white scar. I whimpered, clutching at the fresh wound.

“Please, Bastian Corell, please…” My plea was weak, barely a breath. The pain had hollowed me out.

His grin was terrifying. “Beg now? Fine.” He tossed the knife aside and undid the cuffs. They fell away, but every nerve ending screamed. I collapsed, my head striking the stone floor, and sobs wracked my body.

He kicked me once, twice, leaving me crumpled. “Weakling.” He spat. “Get back to the packhouse and prepare dinner. And see to Elin’s cravings.” With a final slam of the door, he left me alone in a pool of my own blood.

***

Later, I shifted in terror when Elin hurled a plate at me. It shattered against the wall in a spray of ceramic shards. “I don’t want that!” she screamed. “It smells awful—just like you.” Her voice was sharp as broken glass.

My heart pounded with dread; the last thing I needed was the Beta’s wrath for angering his mate. Bleeding and broken, I bit my lip against fresh tears. Yet after scraping together every ounce of strength I had, I had managed to crawl from the torture chamber back to the packhouse. There, I went straight to the kitchen, ignoring the taunts of warriors who sneered at my shredded clothes, laughing that the Beta should have killed me. They warned me not to drip blood into the meal.

Against all odds, I finished cooking their dinner. No one dared strike me as long as the food was on the table, and I escaped through the back door before any of the more lustful warriors could claim their “right” to me.

But now I stood before Elin’s fury. I had prepared another dish, precisely as she demanded, and still she found fault. “Make me soup,” she snapped.

I retreated to the kitchen without a word. My hands trembled as I ladled stock and vegetables into a simmering pot. I worked quickly, praying the aroma would satisfy her. When I returned, she eyed the bowl warily.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, voice cool and bored.

“I—I brought your soup,” I stammered, lifting the bowl hesitantly.

“Get lost,” she said and turned away.

Crushed, I returned to the kitchen to wash the pots and plates, scrubbing at stubborn stains—both food and blood. I dried my hands on a frayed towel, my body aching as though every wound Bastian had inflicted was still fresh. They were.

At last, I was done. I gathered the messy stack of ruined pancakes I’d meant to feed the children, their sweet smell now cloying in my nostrils. I carried them to the stairs leading down into the basement, where I expected to find Nessa playing with her little Moonbun toy. I hadn’t seen her since the torture house; I was desperate for her reassuring smile.

I pushed open the door—and froze. Something in the dim light on the other side of the stairwell made the pancakes slip from my grasp. They tumbled, and I let out a high, piercing cry that echoed off the stone walls. I had never been so terrified—or so helpless—in my life.