For seven agonizing days, time dissolved into a suffocating, silent routine.
Every morning, Karl entered the master suite like a stoic phantom. He never uttered a single word, keeping his face entirely devoid of emotion as he checked her bandaged ribs, measured her pulse, and swiftly departed.
Neither Ilomina nor Theodore ever stepped foot inside the room, terrified to even glance through the threshold.
The Duke's visits were irregular but agonizingly predictable.
He would arrive in the dark, murmuring twisted threats before pressing his lips to her neck, sinking his teeth into her raw skin to drink just enough of her Sangrever blood to maintain his total immunity to her power.
Tonight, the silence shattered.
The heavy mahogany doors flew open, and Ilkar stepped into the room with a chilling, manic smile stretching his scar-carved face.
He threw both arms into the air in a grand, theatrical gesture of celebration, throwing his head back with a breathless laugh.
