LIANA'S POV
The walls of my cell were close, almost suffocating, but not as tight as the pain that pulsed from my ruined hands. I sat hunched on the edge of the narrow cot, holding my arms close to my chest, careful not to let anything touch the shredded skin and exposed bone. Even the bandages, white and too clean for the blood underneath, did little to dull the throbbing ache.
I wasn't dead. That counted for something. They hadn't killed me, though the Prince had come close. I could still feel the ghost of his hands around my throat, the memory of his voice, raw and vicious, echoing in my ears. The pressure. The certainty that if I had given the smallest hint of defiance, he would have finished what he started. Maybe even driven his blade into my heart.
