CHAPTER 7
Rosa's POV
The pain was unlike anything I had ever known.
The moment the scorching dagger seared into my skin, branding his name onto me, I felt my soul shatter.
He didn't even blink. No sedative. No mercy.
Only cold silence.
Only the hiss of the iron and the smell of burning flesh.
Only him, standing there, watching, as if I were nothing more than an object to be claimed.
"You're mine," he had said, his voice devoid of emotion.
"Get rid of those foolish thoughts about fleeing. You belong to me now."
I should've screamed.
But I didn't.
I wouldn't give him that satisfaction.
I bit down so hard on my lip that I tasted blood, but even that didn't distract me from the white-hot agony tearing through me. The tattoo—his name—now etched just beneath my collarbone, would never let me forget.
When the door shut behind him that night, and the heat faded, the hatred began to bloom.
No. Not blooming.
It exploded.
I hated him. Every breath he took, every order he gave, every time he looked at me like I was just property.
I lay in that cold bed for hours, shivering, not from the cold, but from the storm inside me. I kept staring at the ceiling and whispering to myself, Just hold on… just a little longer.
By the full moon, I would be eighteen.
The age of my first shift.
My blood would awaken.
And when it did… I would stop being a helpless pawn in his brutal game.
When I woke the next morning, Bryant was nowhere in sight. I was told he left early with his beta for the Western Palace. Good. The devil could go to hell and back for all I cared.
I needed something—anything—to keep my hands busy, to stop me from going mad.
So I walked out into the courtyard, barefoot, ignoring the stares from the guards. I found a tiny, neglected patch of soil near the fence. The earth was dry, nearly dead, but I dug my fingers into it anyway.
I planted some wildflowers I'd hidden away. They were small, but they were mine. I wanted something to grow in this hellhole, even if I didn't.
Then I went back inside and entered his study.
I don't know why.
Maybe I just wanted to understand what kind of man he was when he wasn't torturing others.
His books were stacked carelessly. Papers are thrown across the desk. But there were a few journals too—some with neat, sharp handwriting. I didn't dare open them, but I arranged them, fixed the scattered maps, and straightened the shelves.
Not because I cared.
But because I wanted control of something.
Even if it was just a room.
Even if it was just for a moment.
I touched my burning skin again.
The wound is still raw, angry, and aching.
But not as much as my hatred.
I was counting down the days.
The full moon was coming.
And so was my awakening