Mathias swallowed hard. A whip rested in his hand, and right in front of him, Isolde was chained up—helpless, her back exposed, ready for him to strike.
Out of the corner of his eye, Mathias glanced at his twin brother, who stood in the corner with fists clenched, barely holding himself back. He couldn't afford a reckless move—not with Lucien's men all around, watching, filming, waiting.
Mathias's grip on the whip tightened. He couldn't bring himself to hit her—not like this. Isolde was pregnant. Her body already looked like it was wasting away, starved in this godforsaken place. And now they expected him to lash her?
But if he didn't, someone else would. A couple of Lucien's goons would get in on it, and they wouldn't pull any punches. Without blinking, without mercy, they'd kick the living daylights out of her. She was nothing more to them than a fucking outlet—a means to vent their loathing of Severin.
