For more than two weeks, Severin had kept coming to the medical room, bringing with him footage—videos of Lucien and Ivan torturing people—forcing Isolde to watch while he trimmed her nails or fed her, even when she refused. And she always did. But Severin did it anyway.
Every time Severin touched her hand, his eyes lingered on her pinky—the space where it used to be. And today, instead of the usual torture videos, Severin walked in with something else—his dagger.
Without a word, without blinking, without even flinching, he cut off his pinky finger in front of her. Blood spilled onto the medical room floor, pooling fast, but Severin stayed steady. Calm.
He handed her the severed finger. "Now we're even more alike."
Isolde took it without breaking eye contact, still staring at his face, waiting because he hadn't finished talking.
"I kept a piece of you. Now you'll keep a piece of me. You and I—we're the same now. I am you, and you are me."
