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Mal studied her for some time. “I agree. But Olivia was in danger—”
Ellen interrupted, “Your mate’s wolf is more capable than you give her credit for.”
Mal’s jaw clenched, something that caused most people to back off. Not Ellen. No, her eyes narrowed and her hands fisted. And, damn it all, she was gorgeous.
Olivia rested her hand on Mal’s arm and, with that touch, stole Mal’s wrath. “You can protect yourself. Your wolf is a badass, I know that.” He spoke to his mate before turning back to Ellen. “But you wouldn’t stand by and let your mate fight if you knew the opponent didn’t fight fair. It’s not about trusting her, it’s about knowing them.” He shook his head. “When you have a mate, we’ll talk.”
Hollis was all too familiar with the hard smile she gave Mal. It was a defense mechanism. Mal had hit a nerve. Something that had Ellen’s eyes blazing and her cheeks flushing a deep red. He waited, hoping the storm brewing inside would spill out into the room. If he knew what demons still tormented her, maybe he could find a way to help chase them away. But she bit, angrily, into her apple and stalked from the room. Leaving more questions than ever.
…
Claws. Flaying skin from her body in long, fine strips.
Her blood scenting the air.
Teeth.
Biting her. Tearing flesh away in chunks. So deep her nerves jumped and quivered from each new assault.
Cold chains around her wrists and ankles kept her secured to the stone floor.
There was no escape.
She was trapped, their prisoner. Images, sounds, scents pressing in on her until she wanted to cry out. But she wouldn’t give Cyrus more satisfaction.
Her lungs were too empty too scream. And there was no one to scream to. No one would help her—she had no one. Cyrus had made sure of that.
This was her fate. Facing death. Alone.
She couldn’t see through the bag over her head. For that, she was thankful. She’d know some of her tormentors. Maybe Cyrus was right, maybe being blind kept the victim consumed by the pain. But seeing those she’d healed, shared a meal with, or comforted through grief as one of her assailants was a suffering she’d been spared. Besides, they’d been on her so long, pain no longer registered.
This was a game to Cyrus now. Power. Dominance. She was a means to an end in his eyes. As long as she was alive, she’d bleed. And her blood was all that mattered to him. For that reason, he would never let her go or kill her.
“The hole,” Cyrus’s calm announcement broke her then, forcing a long, rasping cry from her lips.
No.
She couldn’t do it, not again. And Cyrus knew that.
The hole was complete blackness—the only light a pinprick far overhead. One she’d stared at for hours, waiting, hoping, for some sort of relief. It never came.
The diameter of the hole forced her to stretch her arms up, over her head, to fit. Each breath was constricting, removing the slight space between her and the walls of her prison. Her bare feet sunk into muck below her. Climbing out was impossible, the walls slick with damp and too slippery to find traction. Still, she’d torn nails free and dislocated fingers trying to escape the black cold. Staying calm was key. Keeping her wolf under control. She couldn’t shift here—too many bones would break.
But her wolf rebelled, wanting to break free, believing she was capable to climbing out, reaching freedom. Calm. She had to stay calm.
But the confinement wasn’t the worst of it. Alone, in the dark, time ceased to exist. The mind wandered when left to its own devices. And that was when true punishment began.
Memories were far more torturous than anything that could be done to her.
“Ellen?” The voice was soft. Not Cyrus. “Ellen, open your eyes.”
Open her eyes? Didn’t he see the bag?
But something changed.
It wasn’t cold. Her feet were dry. The air smelled clean, not dank and earthy. Only the blackness remained. Partly because her eyes were pressed shut. What would she see? Could she bear it? She sucked in a deep breath, searching for scent—hoping.
Nothing.
