Caius's POV
I woke up screaming.
Again.
The nightmare was always the same. Cold stone walls. Chains cutting into my wrists. Lysander's beautiful face smiling while he carved into my skin, asking questions I couldn't answer because I didn't know the military secrets he wanted.
Six months. Six months of that hell.
I stumbled out of bed, drenched in sweat, and grabbed the bottle of whiskey from my nightstand. My hands shook so badly I almost dropped it. The amber liquid burned going down but it didn't stop the shaking. Nothing stopped the shaking anymore.
Three years since I'd been rescued. Three years and I still woke up screaming like a broken child.
I was Sir Caius Wrenhart—war hero, decorated knight, one of Prince Theron's most trusted soldiers. But inside? Inside I was still chained to that wall, still feeling the knife, still hearing Lysander's voice asking "Where does it hurt most?"
The worst part? I couldn't even fight back when they'd rescued me. I'd been so broken that I just lay there, crying, while my own soldiers cut my chains. Pathetic.
I took another long drink, trying to drown the memories.
A knock at my door made me jump, whiskey sloshing onto my hand.
Nobody visited me. Not anymore. My friends had tried at first, but I couldn't stand their pity. Couldn't stand how they looked at me like I was fragile, damaged, something to be handled carefully.
The knock came again. Louder.
"Go away!" I shouted.
"Caius, please. I need to talk to you."
That voice. I knew that voice. Smooth and rich like honey.
Lysander's voice.
Rage exploded through me, burning away the fear and self-pity. I grabbed my sword from where it leaned against the wall and stormed to the door, yanking it open so hard it slammed against the wall.
Lysander Corvith stood in my doorway. Alone. Unguarded. Looking at me with those ice-blue eyes that had watched me suffer.
"You," I growled, raising my sword. "You came to my home?"
He didn't run. Didn't call for guards. Just stood there looking smaller somehow, less dangerous than I remembered. "I came to apologize."
I laughed, but it sounded broken even to my ears. "Apologize? You tortured me for six months and you think an apology fixes that?"
"No." His voice was quiet, almost gentle. "I know it doesn't fix anything. Nothing can fix what I did. But I needed to tell you I'm sorry. I needed you to know that I see what I did to you. How I broke you. How I destroyed the person you were."
My sword trembled in my grip. "Why now? Why come here after three years?"
"Because I finally understand what a monster I was." Tears shimmered in his eyes—actual tears. Lysander never cried. "I can't undo the past. Can't give you back the six months I stole. Can't erase the nightmares. But I can face you and tell you the truth: what I did was evil. Unforgivable. And I'm sorry."
Something inside me snapped.
I lunged forward, slamming him against the hallway wall with my sword at his throat. He gasped but didn't fight back, didn't try to push me away. Just stood there with my blade pressed against his skin, waiting.
"Fight back!" I screamed in his face. "Defend yourself! Do something!"
"Why?" he asked quietly. "Would it make you feel better if I fought? If I acted like the monster you remember?"
"Yes! No! I don't know!" My hands shook harder. "You can't just show up here acting sorry! You smiled while you hurt me! You laughed when I begged you to stop! You asked which wounds hurt most so you could make them worse!"
"I know." Fresh tears spilled down his face. "I remember every second. Every scream. Every time you begged. And I hate myself for it."
"You should!" I pressed the sword harder, drawing a thin line of blood. "You should hate yourself! You destroyed me! I can't sleep without nightmares! Can't be alone without panicking! Can't even hold a weapon steady anymore because my hands won't stop shaking!"
I was crying now too, hot angry tears that I'd been holding back for years.
"I know," he whispered. "I did that to you. I took a strong, brave soldier and broke him into pieces. And I will never forgive myself for it."
"Then why are you here?" I demanded. "If you know you're unforgivable, why come apologize?"
"Because you deserve to hear it. You deserved better than what I gave you. You deserved to be treated with dignity even as a prisoner of war. Instead, I treated you like an object. Like your pain was entertainment." His voice cracked. "If killing me will give you even a moment of peace, then do it. I won't stop you."
My sword wavered. This wasn't the Lysander I remembered. That Lysander had been cold and calculating, finding pleasure in cruelty. This man looked genuinely broken by guilt.
"What game are you playing?" I asked suspiciously. "This has to be a trick."
"No trick. I just—" He stopped, swallowed hard. "I'm trying to become someone different. Someone who isn't a monster. And that starts with facing what I did to you."
I stared at him, breathing hard. Part of me wanted to drive my sword through his throat right now. End it. Get the revenge I'd dreamed about for three years.
But another part—the broken part that still woke up screaming—wanted something else. Wanted him to understand. Wanted him to carry the weight of what he'd done.
"You want forgiveness?" I asked harshly.
"No. I don't deserve that."
"You want absolution?"
"No."
"Then what do you want?"
He looked directly into my eyes, and I saw genuine pain there. "I want to give you power over me the way I had power over you. I want to give you control back. Whatever you need to heal—hurt me, use me, kill me—I'll accept it. My life is yours now."
Was he insane? Or was this real?
"You're offering yourself to me?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "As what? Revenge?"
"As reparation. As payment for what I stole from you." His voice steadied. "For six months you had no control. No choice. You were helpless and I made sure you knew it every single day. Now I'm giving you that control back. I'm making myself helpless. Do whatever you want with me."
My mind reeled. This was wrong. Twisted. But also—tempting in a way that made me sick.
"You're playing with fire," I said quietly, lowering my sword slightly. "You don't know what you're offering."
"I know exactly what I'm offering." He didn't look away. "I know you might want to hurt me the way I hurt you. Make me feel what you felt. And I'll accept that. Because you deserve justice and I deserve punishment."
Justice. Punishment. Control.
The words sang through my broken mind like a promise.
Before I could respond, footsteps pounded down the hallway. A palace messenger ran toward us, face pale with terror.
"Sir Caius! Duke Corvith! You need to come now!" He gasped for breath. "The palace is under attack! Dozens of assassins! They're targeting Duke Corvith specifically—Duke Harrington sent them! Prince Theron's calling all fighters to defend the palace!"
My training kicked in despite my shaking hands. "How many?"
"At least forty! They're overwhelming the regular guards!"
I looked at Lysander. He'd gone pale but stood straighter. "I should go. They're coming for me. I won't let others die protecting me."
"You can't fight," I said flatly. "You don't even have a weapon."
"Then I'll surrender to them. Stop the attack."
"And let them torture you the way you tortured me?" Something fierce rose in my chest—possessive and angry. "No. If anyone's going to make you suffer, it'll be me. Not them."
I grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward my apartment. "Stay behind me. I'll get you to safety, then join the fight."
"Why would you protect me?" he asked, stumbling after me.
"Because you just gave yourself to me," I growled. "Which means you're mine now. And I don't let anyone else touch what's mine."
We ran through the hallways toward the palace. Sounds of fighting echoed ahead—swords clashing, people screaming, chaos erupting.
As we rounded a corner, five assassins in black masks blocked our path, weapons drawn.
The leader pointed at Lysander. "There he is. Duke Harrington wants him alive. For now."
I stepped in front of Lysander, raising my sword. My hands were still shaking but my voice came out steady and cold.
"You want him? You go through me first."
The assassins laughed. "One broken knight? This'll be easy."
They attacked as one.
And for the first time in three years, I fought back without fear—because I had something worth protecting.
Even if that something was the monster who'd broken me in the first place.