Clamping her lips together, she met his gaze across the long room. He looked her over, taking in every inch of her, as if deciding which place to hurt her this time—which area might cause the most damage.
A wicked gleam came into his eyes. “Hold her down,” he said.
“No—,” she gasped, but two of his soldiers forced her to her knees. They tore her cloak off, and a blade sliced through the back of her dress, cutting through the fabric from her tailbone to the nape of her neck. Armored hands scraped her back as they shoved the sleeves off her shoulders.
“P-please,” she whimpered.
The king advanced toward her, a nine-tail whip held loosely between his calloused fingers. The hooked ends dragged across the floor, the metal squealing against the glass.
The king came to a stop directly behind her. Nocturne flinched as he slowly brought the whip up and trailed it over her scarred back. The gesture could almost be mistaken for the touch of a lover. Nocturne imagined it was for contrast, as if to say,This might not hurt now, but it will in a moment.
“This is merciful, Wycherley,” said the king, each word buzzing with anticipation. “The next time you choose to keep silent, you will find yourself without a tongue.” He pulled the whip away. The hooks grazed her skin, igniting fear deep inside her.
Nocturne barely registered the zing of the whip cutting through the air until it sliced into her back. It came down again, and again, and again. Blood dripped down her back, and she sagged forward, held in place by the hands gripping her upper arms like fetters.
The wolf let out a low whine, shuffling her paws. When the whip came down again, the beast yelped. A guard swatted her between the ears, and she cowered.
The whip came down again. Nocturne tried not to count, but she couldn’t help it.
Six.
Seven.
Eight. The tang of her own blood filled her nostrils.
The wolf dove for Nocturne, a feral snarl ripping through her bared teeth. The sound carried far, and two guards leapt forward and grabbed the animal around the throat. They dragged the wolf out of the room, and all the while, the whip continued to fall.
As Nocturne fought the scream rising in her throat, she tried to remind herself that this was nothing compared to what her family had endured. Her sister, Olive, only sixteen at the time, had been raped in the house they’d grown up in. Nocturne had seen the smears of blood on the insides of her thighs, the nightgown that had been torn by men thrice her age.
As the whip came down again, Nocturne’s burning eyes flew open. She never found out who did it, but she would—one day.
One day, she would find out who raped her sister, who strung her body up on the flagpole, like an object good for only viewing. One day, she would find out whose hands had tied up her mother and lit her on fire; watched her burn alive. One day she would find out which of the men had bludgeoned her father over the head and walked through his blood, leaving footprints on the floorboards of their home. One day, she would be able to say she’d found out—and that she’d torn the world apart as she avenged them. By then, she would be more than ready to join them.
The pain grew worse as her scars were torn open, and her surroundings became a blur of shadow and candlelight-red. She caught a glimpse of Killian leaving the room, the cloak he wore that was as red as her blood swishing across the floor.
After that, there was only pain. She closed her eyes and waited for it to be over.
~
The corridors were silent and still. The complete absence of sound was something the Wolf of Winter never took for granted.
He ran a hand through his hair as he meandered through the corridors, mulling over his encounter with the captain and the princess. He hoped Clarice was in Emeraldis, and not on one of her monthly hunts for cannibals and murderers with the other members of her group.
The scuff of shoes on the floor interrupted Kit’s train of thought—and sliced right through his moment of peace. Slowing his pace, he listened for voices. The last thing he wanted was to be forced into making idle chatter. He craved solitude to suffer through his thoughts. Through the guilt that plagued his mind, day after long day.
As he neared the corner that would take him up the sweeping staircase that led to his chambers, freesia and peppermint—the scents that clung to Nocturne’s hair and skin—had his footsteps slowing again. The invigorating scents were tangled with the salty tang of…
Blood. It was blood he was smelling.
Then he heard her voice, and he rounded the corner to find Nocturne and Twyla halfway up the stairs. Nocturne was leaning against the wall beside a crystal, her face ghostly pale. Twyla was staring wide-eyed at the general, Nocturne’s fox-fur cloak clutched under tense arms.
Nocturne’s dress had been cut open, and the back of it was soaked in blood.
For the first time in his life, Kit swore his eyes changed to red.
~
Kit threw open the throne room doors; they hit the walls with abangthat had every man in the room flinching.
