39
A mockery of comfort
ZARA
Pain seeps into my bones, constant and always twisting. It digs deeper with every passing second. I screamed and now I’ve stopped. There’s no point. Every inch of my body is being ripped apart, piece by piece, and crying out won’t stop that. The agony is inevitable and the only options that remain are to endure or succumb to it.
The blood weave thrums weakly in the background, but even it is fading, barely a whisper against the chaos that surrounds me. Galen knows, and his gaze hardens. His eyes are as cold as the grave and they push down on me, willing me to collapse. Every flicker of his attention is a lash across my skin, every word he utters a shard of glass that sinks further into my flesh.
“You’ll break,” he repeats, the confidence in his voice like a hammer striking an anvil. “It’s just a matter of time.”
I won’t.
I can’t.
My muscles scream for release and the raw ache of my bones protest every moment I’m forced to remain still. There’s a part of me that wants to give in but the greater part knows I’m finished as soon as I do. I know what happens when witches give in. I’ve heard the stories. I’ve seen what’s left behind. The hollowed-out husks left in place of the women they’ve robbed of everything, their eyes glazed and their magic spent.
They’re worse than dead.
They’re empty vessels.
And whatever was stolen from them cannot be returned.
Galen won’t just drain me. He’ll take everything that makes me who I am and twist it into something unrecognizable. Something worse than eternal agony. Something unspeakable and foul.
The air reeks of blood and rot, the sharp tang of iron coating my tongue. My arms are heavy, dangling from the bindings above me, wrists raw and slick with my blood. Every breath is an effort, and I force myself to draw the next one as I force myself to keep going.
I will not break.
I can not break.
I must not break.
Malric crouches closer, the same sick grin still plastered across his face. He’s savoring every second of this, and his crimson eyes burn brighter as my shoulder joints sink lower. His bony fingers trail over my arm and his touch makes bile rise in my throat.
“She’s close,” he murmurs to Galen, his tone triumphant. “I can feel it. Just a little more and she’ll be mine.”
His.
As though I’m some prize to claim or a tool to wield. My stomach churns with hatred, white-hot and simmering beneath the pain.
Galen’s expression darkens and danger flashes through his features. Shadows ripple around him, subtle at first, but growing murkier with every passing second, like smoke curling from a fire that’s only just begun to rage. His eyes shine with a sharpness that’s keener than malice. He’s control wrapped around fury, his insanity barely held in check by his reason.
“She’s not yours, Malric,” he snaps, his voice as cutting as any whip.
Malric flinches, but his smirk doesn’t falter. “Not yet.”
I clench my teeth, biting back the scream that’s clawing its way up my throat. Acid bubbles through my chest and my heart shudders, wondering where the fuck Kade could be. He should be compelled to act by the blood weave, even if he didn’t truly care, dragging him like a moth drawn to a flame. The ebon chain should have pulled him by now if it were working as it was supposed to, but instead, there’s an empty space where he should be.
And that void looms larger with every passing moment.
Doubt gnaws around the edges of my resolve and a cold whisper speaks against the heat of my pain. I close my eyes and pray I wasn’t wrong to believe in him, to put my faith in a warlock as despicable as Kade. My instincts told me not to trust him, but he seemed so sure.
Maybe I was wrong to believe that someone like me would find someone like him. Maybe I was wrong to hope for something better, something that made sense. Maybe the despair feels more binding than the rope cutting into my wrists, and my breath catches, jagged and shallow, as I contemplate the choices that led me here.
But I cannot think like that.
I cannot give in.
