Chapter 3
Ethan
The guard did not loosen his grip for even a second. His hand felt like a ring of cold iron around my arm as he hauled me down yet another endless corridor. My bare feet dragged across the stone floor. This part of the building felt different; the stone was colder and had sharper edges that poked at my skin. It felt like the very floor was trying to bite me. The only sound in the hallway was the steady clink of my chains and the heavy thud of the guard's boots. My throat still felt raw and bruised from where Mick's fingers had squeezed the life out of me, but that pain felt like it belonged to a different person. I was too focused on my goal to care about a few bruises.
We reached a large door at the end of the hall. The guard did not knock. He shoved it open and threw me inside with enough force to send me sprawling.
I hit the floor on my knees for what felt like the hundredth time that day. The impact was so hard that it jarred my teeth. I stayed there for a moment, chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath. I forced my head up and looked around the room.
This was not a cell. It was a bedroom, but it was larger than any apartment I had ever seen back home. A massive bed sat in the middle of the room. It had black silk sheets and a dark wood frame that looked incredibly old. Candles were placed in iron holders around the room. They burned low, making the room look dim and flickering. On the bed, someone was waiting for me.
The man rose slowly. He was tall, and his broad shoulders stretched the black fabric of his shirt. His hair was as dark as midnight and fell loosely around a face that looked like it was carved from perfect marble. When he looked at me, I saw his eyes. They were the color of a storm—a deep, dark violet that was almost black. He didn't look angry. Instead, his lips were curved in a look of lazy amusement.
"System," I whispered. "Who the hell is this one?"
The red text flared into existence right next to him.
Target: Desmond — The Third Prince. Known among the elders as the Deadly Prince. He is the most volatile and the most unpredictable. Extreme caution is advised. Do not anger him if survival is your goal. Death is near-certain if he loses his temper.
I felt a slow, crooked smile pull at my mouth. This was exactly what I wanted to hear. If he was the "Deadly Prince," then he was my best shot at getting out of here and getting paid.
"Perfect," I muttered.
Desmond walked toward me. He didn't rush. Each step was slow and deliberate. As he got closer, the air in the room seemed to get heavier, making it harder to breathe. He stopped right in front of me, so close that I had to crane my neck to see him. I could smell him now—he smelled like smoke and iron, with something darker underneath that I couldn't quite name.
I didn't look away. I tilted my head up and met his gaze. "For a man who looks this good, you are really just a devil in disguise, aren't you?" I said, my voice mocking. "Why did you call a filthy slave into your private room like this? What is the matter? Do you want to kill me yourself? Are you tired of sharing your toys with your brothers?"
Desmond's fingers caught my chin. His grip was firm but not cruel yet. He lifted my face higher, forcing me to keep looking into those violet eyes.
"You have been very bad lately, little slave," he murmured. His voice was low and smooth, like velvet wrapped over a piece of steel. "Tell me something. Are you not scared of death at all?"
I let out a short, rough laugh. "What is wrong with all you princes? Why do you all talk so much? If you are going to do it, just do it. I am not scared of being dead. I never have been. Just kill me already and get it over with."
He didn't snap. Instead, his thumb brushed against my lower lip. The movement was almost gentle, which made my stomach twist with a strange feeling. I didn't like it. I needed him to be angry.
I kept pushing. "If you want me gone, then make it fast. I am not here to listen to your speeches. I will not hear a word of it."
Desmond studied my face for a long time. He looked like he was searching for a lie, but all he found was my honest desire to end this. Finally, he released my chin and stepped back. He sat on the edge of the large bed with his legs spread and his elbows resting on his knees. He watched me as if I were a rare, broken toy he had just found in the trash.
"This is the first time," he said quietly, "that a slave has ever spoken to me like this."
I blinked, confused by his calm reaction. "So? What is your point?"
"So I like it," he said.
The words hit me like a physical blow. I felt a wave of shock. "You are… you are not killing me?"
He smiled then. It was a slow and dangerous look. His fangs glinted in the dim candlelight. "Why would I kill you? You are just a slave. Your death is not yours to decide, Ethan. It never was."
I didn't even have time to process what he said before he moved. He was a blur of motion. One second he was sitting on the bed, and the next, he was right in front of me again. He grabbed my shoulders and shoved me hard.
I hit the mattress face-first. The silk felt cool against my cheek, but I didn't have time to enjoy it. Desmond was over me in an instant. His weight pinned me down, and he pressed a knee firmly between my thighs so I couldn't move.
"You have been such a bad boy," he whispered right against my ear. His breath felt cold on my skin. "How would you like to be punished?"
I twisted my head around so I could glare up at him. I was furious. My plan was failing again. "Can you just kill me? That is all I want. Just end this!"
He chuckled. It was a low, dark sound that vibrated through my chest. "No."
Then, he hauled me up by the arm. He spun me around and forced me to my feet. I stumbled, but he held me steady.
"A slave," he said, and this time his voice was much colder, "never gets to decide when they die. Even if you do die, I will just bring you back. I will do it again and again. I will torment you until you beg to obey me. I will keep going until you break completely."
Rage boiled up inside me. I was tired of being handled. I was tired of these princes thinking they owned my very soul. "If you do not kill me right now, I will kill you," I spat. "I swear it."
My eyes darted around the room, looking for a weapon. I saw a heavy silver candelabra on the side table. It was tall and had a spiked base. I lunged for it. My fingers closed around the cold metal, and I swung it with all my strength, aiming right for his temple.
He was too fast. He caught my wrist mid-air. He twisted my arm, and I felt the bone grind painfully in the socket. I cried out as the candelabra clattered to the floor, useless.
Desmond looked down at my hand, then back at my face. "You have really turned bold, haven't you?"
He released me, and I stumbled back a step, clutching my throbbing wrist. I expected him to strike me, but he didn't. Instead, his hands went to my shirt. He gripped the fabric and pulled. The material tore easily, ripped clean open from the collar to the hem. The cool air of the room hit my bare skin.
"What the hell are you doing?" I snarled, trying to cover myself.
"Did you not ask for death?" he asked. He stepped forward and pushed me down. My knees hit the stone floor again. It was a hard, painful landing. "I am granting your wish. I am just going to do it much slower than you wanted."
My torn shirt hung off my shoulders, useless. He stepped behind me, and I heard a sound that made my blood run cold. It was the sound of leather uncoiling—the soft, deadly whisper of a whip.
I tensed my muscles, waiting for the blow. I refused to look weak. "You are a coward," I said, my voice shaking with anger. "If you are too scared to end it quickly, then you are nothing."
The first lash cracked across my back.
It felt like fire. It was a pure, white-hot explosion of pain that erupted under my skin. I screamed. I couldn't stop the sound from ripping out of me. It sounded raw and broken in the quiet room.
Another lash hit me. Then another. Each one felt like acid eating through my muscle. Each strike burned deeper than the one before it.
My vision began to blur. My legs couldn't hold me up anymore, and they buckled under my weight. I collapsed forward, my palms slapping against the cold stone ground. I gasped for air, but my lungs felt tight.
I felt one more strike of the whip.
The pain was too much. Darkness rushed in quickly, and for the first time, it felt merciful.
I passed out on the cold stone floor.