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Though I trembled, fury gave me the strength to get out the words I needed to say. “He would have wanted Torvo alive.”

Fiorge grunted. “Aye, but even his cuntship knows I can’t control everything. The one thing he was insistent about was getting you back alive. Aww, don’t be sad—I’ll help you forget him.”

White hot anger flared, and I jerked to the side, smashing my skull into his face. The resulting crunch was almost as satisfying as his cry of pain and the fact that he fell to the floor, blood spurting.

Rivven grinned and nodded approvingly. Something akin to pride stirred in my chest as Fiorge rose to his feet, menace in his gaze. He backhanded me, sending a shock of pain across my cheek. I fell, sprawling on my side.

“Crate ‘em, mates.” Fiorge’s command sent his men scurrying into action. They dragged the rest of our crew back up the steps, starting with Rivven, who they poked gingerly with the hilts of their swords so as not to fall into the same trap as their dead friend who lay at the bottom of the steps.

The lanky man who’d given the number of dead yanked Sharlyne to her feet and paused before Fiorge. “Do we have to crate ‘em all?”

“Have your fun, Kane, and tell the men this is the first of their payment.” He swept out a hand indicating Devira and, to my surprise, a gaunt looking Galan as well.

With a huge grin, the other man steered the prisoners up the stairs, leaving me alone with Fiorge and the dead man on the ground. I envied him. He no longer felt the pain, while I continued to drown in it. And it was about to get far worse, I realized, as Fiorge towered above me, his shadow blocking the dim light that trickled down from above.

I’d never felt so lost, not even when father had turned a blind eye to Serano’s abuse. I always withdrew when things became too hard. But if I retreated into my mind now, I’d be faced with the hallow of Nyah’s absence even more acutely than I was just sitting here on the floor. She’d been born of a time when I felt very much the same as I did now. Fiorge yanked me to my feet and backed me into the wall. But as dire as my situation was, I realized that this time, I wanted to stay present, to fight as much as I could.

Zeroing in on the mix of dried and fresh blood that still trailed down his chin, I straightened my shoulders and raised my gaze to meet his. I’d done that. Without magic.

“So many things I want to do with you,” he said, smoothing my hair back on my forehead. “Where to start? Ah, I know.” He stepped back and raised his hand, an onyx dagger held between us.

I wished I could somehow control the abject fear that possessed my body at the sight of that blade, but my knees went weak, and my world began to quake.

And when the blade carved a burning trail down the side of my arm, slicing open my leather sleeve as though it was made of air, a loud whimper escaped my lips.

“Oh, now, I’ve barely started, Your Highness. Don’t tell me you have such little grit?” He tsked, clamping my jaw in his free hand so hard I knew it would leave a mark.

I was no stranger to abuse, whether physical, mental, or sexual, but that didn’t make it easier, especially coming from the man responsible for killing the love of my life. And I was sick of it. Sick of feeling helpless and victimized. I wanted so badly to fight back, even if only to try—but how?

The blade sliced an abrupt X across my chest. Thin lines of red crisscrossed the flesh where the material fell forward. It was so sharp that the blood took a moment before it began to ooze downward over my exposed breasts. It was shallow, but it stung. So did the way he bit down on my shoulder right afterward.

Again, I cried out something between a sob and a plea, and when he raised his head to face me, his chin was covered in my blood as much as his own.

“Tell me, Your Highness, how experienced are you in the ways of the world?” he demanded, though it was impossible to answer with the grip he had on my face.

I had little in the way of options, but I had to try, so I gathered my saliva and spit in his single eye.

He released me in shock, cursing as he stepped back to rub it clear. I slid back against the wall to the ground, gasping for breath as he rounded on me again. Out of habit and desperation I called to my magic⁠—

I felt something.

It was small, like a child hiding in the shadows when she thought she’d done something wrong. But there it was, deep in my marrow. It wasn’t the power I’d been reaching for—the tried-and-true elemental power I’d inherited from my mother or whatever dark magic my father had tried when I was a baby. No this was…more natural, so much a part of me that I almost hadn’t realized it was there.

Fiorge took hold of what was left of my braid and yanked me back up to face him. “Someone has to learn to behave.”

But I was too busy coaxing that shadow of magic out from inside myself to respond. I recognized it now. It was my native illusion magic. What I’d inherited from being born in Centos. And damned if I wasn’t the best illusion wielder in the world. Why hadn’t I tried it before? I should have known deeper than anyone the underappreciated power illusion held.

I thought of Nyah then and winced. Fiorge made a satisfied noise, clearly thinking it had to do with him slicing the remaining material from my torso and leaving his scarlet trails behind. But I barely felt it now.

Come to me, I coaxed my power, and the collar around my neck seared my flesh, blinding me for a moment.

“Your magic won’t work,” Fiorge taunted, noting the sizzle at my throat. “You have no power here. You are mine, little girl. Mine. If I feel like it, I’ll turn you over to your father for the reward, but not until I’ve had my fill. You understand me?”

He shook me, then threw me face-first at the small table in the center of the room. It wobbled, nearly toppling as I crashed into the surface, splinters embedding in my abdomen and arms. Grabbing hold of my braid, he tore me back and shoved me into the wall again, face-first this time. The pain shocked me as the world spun out of control. He released me, and I slid to the ground, barely managing to turn as I did so.

Looming over me, he drank in my sobs and shallow gasps for breath. My arms trembled with the effort of keeping me from completely crumpling to the floor. Then he squatted before me and laughed.

Gods, that laugh. It reverberated through my fuzzy head, stirring something deep inside—something that still wanted to fight back for my sake, but also for Torvo and the others. My eyes locked on the small onyx dagger in his hand as he stroked my cheek with the back of his other.