I came to with a scream already ripping its way out of my throat, the sound raw and primal as it tore through the silence of the room. Pain tore through me, centered high on my right shoulder blade. It didn't just burn. It consumed, each wave boring through muscle and scraping against bone with relentless intensity. The scent of charred flesh hit the back of my throat, causing me to gag involuntarily as recognition split through me like lightning.

  Marcelo had marked me.

  He had burned his crest into my flesh. Branded me like cattle.

  A choked sound burst from deep within my chest, hovering somewhere between a sob and a howl as my entire body spasmed in protest. I pulled desperately against the leather bindings that held my limbs wide and taut, my skin sticking to the sheets beneath me, slick with sweat and blood. I couldn't even curl in on myself to escape the searing agony radiating from my back.

  Marcelo's hand ghosted across my lower back, his touch featherlight but still made me flinch as though touched by open flame.

  "Oh, good," he purred beside me, his voice soft and awful in its tenderness. "I was hoping you'd wake for this part."

  I turned my face into the mattress and bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood.I remembered Nalah kneeling before me, silent and stoic as that scar curled across her shoulder like Marcelo's personal signature. She'd told me it never stayed, that he kept doing it again and again because she healed too fast.

  Something within me broke, the fracture clean and quiet. I didn't cry. I didn't rage. I simply lay there breathing shallow breaths, my fists clenched and numb against the restraints as I allowed the fire of the brand to devour whatever part of me still believed I was safe in my own skin. That illusion, at least, would never trouble me again.

  Marcelo leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear. "You'll scream so much more before I'm done."

  The shifting of his weight on the mattress reached my ears before I registered any movement, the ancient bed frame creaking as he repositioned himself beside me. His breath hushed close to my ear, followed by a terrible, deliberate silence that stretched between us.

  Then his hand came down on the brand.

  The contact was flat and full, just the simple, horrifying connection of his palm against the mutilated flesh of my shoulder blade. My body arched violently against the restraints in pure reflex, a scream tearing from my throat.

  "Beautiful." His voice thick with an appreciation that turned my stomach.

  The heat from his skin created a second burning sensation that layered atop the first. My stomach heaved violently, though there was nothing left to expel after hours of unconsciousness.

  "See how it fits you? You were made for this. For being marked. For being mine."

  My body shook uncontrollably, caught in the terrible space between fight and collapse as my claws flexed helplessly within the leather restraints that held my wrists immobile. My legs twitched and strained against the bindings at my ankles, but they held firm.

  He moved his hand just a fraction, fingers sliding deliberately over the raw edge of the wound. Another scream tore from my throat, breaking into sobbing gasps as my body jolted violently. The pain had begun to transform into something deeper than physical agony, the humiliation of exposure, of being utterly at another's mercy.

  Marcelo made a pleased sound deep in his throat. "Ah, there she is.”

  His fingers traced a path lower now, away from the brand but not nearly far enough to offer any respite.

  "This body of yours has always been such a fascinating contradiction. A weapon, crafted for violence and power, and yet..." His voice dropped to an intimate whisper. "Look at it now. Laid bare. Helpless. Broken open like something sweet and ripe for the taking."

  He pressed his palm flat against the small of my back, his skin unnaturally hot.

  "You wanted so desperately to believe you were above this, beyond the basic truth of what you are. But I knew, Joy. I always knew you'd come crawling back to your nature in the end."

  I clenched my jaw so tightly I thought my teeth might shatter, biting down until I felt something crack.

  It didn't matter how I struggled. I couldn't move, couldn't escape, couldn't stop him from touching me wherever and however he pleased.

  "I want him to see it. Jacobi. I want him to look at this mark and know that I put it there, that I touched you deeper than he ever could or would dare to. I want him to understand that I've claimed the one thing he thought was truly his."

  His hand slid from my back to rest lightly on my hip.

  "Don't pass out yet," he said softly, his thumb stroking over my skin in gentle circles that belied the brutality of his earlier actions. "We've barely started our time together."

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  I understood perfectly that this wasn't about extracting information or enforcing obedience. This was about possession in its most fundamental form.

  "You don't even realize what you're giving me," he murmured, his fingers sliding higher along my side before his palm pressed lightly between my shoulder blades, carefully avoiding the fresh brand. "You've always performed for someone, haven't you? Always belonged to someone. First your royal masters in Naerith, then the auction house, then Velez. But this?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "This is different."

  His hand drifted to my side, tracing the shape of my ribs with disturbing precision, his thumb brushing over the fading bruises that Jacobi had left during our last training session—marks he hadn't meant to leave and had apologized for later. I tensed instinctively at the touch, my breath catching in my throat as Marcelo explored the evidence of another man's handling.

  His fingers hooked under my jaw without warning, lifting my face from the mattress. My cheek scraped against the coarse fabric as he turned my head, forcing me to look at him. The pain of this small movement barely registered.

  I met his eyes, his features distorted by the angle and the dim light of the room.

  "Still in there, little pet?"

  My mouth worked uselessly, jaw moving without sound as I struggled to summon words that refused to come.

  He leaned closer, closing the last inches between us, and pressed his lips against mine.

  It wasn't the brutal claiming I might have expected. It was a real kiss—soft, intentional, almost gentle in its execution. And that gentleness, that perversion of intimacy, was wrong enough to break something loose inside me that even the pain hadn't reached.

  I gagged violently, my body convulsing with revulsion.

  He drew back, chuckling softly. "We'll get there.”

  Then his hand moved again, sliding lower along my body with deliberate slowness.

  He shifted his position once more, moving behind me where I couldn't see him. I felt his legs straddling mine, his weight settling across my calves and pinning them down even more effectively than the restraints already had. His hands pressed firmly to either side of my waist, his grip no longer exploratory but possessive—owning rather than questioning.

  "Now," he said, his tone sharpening, "let's find out what you sound like when you stop pretending you can fight what's happening to you."

  I jerked at his words, rage flaring bright and hot in my chest, but my body refused to respond to my will, weakened by pain and blood loss.

  The edges of my vision threatened to darken and dissolve, but I fought against the encroaching unconsciousness with every fragment of will I had left. Marcelo would never allow me the mercy of escape, and I refused to give him the satisfaction of watching me succumb to weakness. I could feel his eyes on me, attentive and calculating as he listened for the change in my breathing that would signal I was drifting away.

  "You're still with me," he murmured, unmistakable pleasure coloring his voice. "Good girl."

  I wanted to scream, to sink my teeth into his flesh, to burn the phrase from existence and from my memory. But all I could manage was to breathe—each inhale and exhale a defiance, shallow but steady, a reminder that I still existed beyond what he was doing to my body.

  He leaned down over me again, and I flinched involuntarily before he even made contact, my nerves hyperaware and anticipating fresh pain with every movement he made. But instead of another violation, he pressed his lips gently against the center of my spine.

  "You've lived your whole life ready for violence, trained to withstand pain and brutality. But this..." He placed another kiss just below the first. "This gentle touch makes you feel things you never prepared for."

  His lips traced a path lower down my spine, each kiss a fresh horror.

  "This is where I truly find you, Joy. Not in your screams of pain, but in these small moments of revulsion that you can't control."

  Time lost meaning as Marcelo continued his methodical exploration, each touch both calculated and cruel in its gentleness. He spoke constantly, his voice a soft, poisonous stream of words designed to burrow beneath my defenses. He told me what he planned to do with me in the coming days. He described how he would parade me before Jacobi when he was finished, how my former owner would barely recognize what remained of his prized fighter.

  I retreated not into unconsciousness but into a place of cold fury where each word, each touch, was another debt to be paid. I conserved every ounce of energy, knowing that sooner or later an opportunity would present itself.

  When he finally tired of his game, he moved away from the bed. I heard water being poured into a basin, the soft splash oddly mundane after everything that had transpired. He returned moments later with a damp cloth that he pressed against the brand, the sudden coolness both a relief and a fresh agony as it awakened nerve endings that had begun to numb themselves.

  "We don't want this getting infected," he said, his voice carrying the false concern of an owner tending to valuable property. "It needs to heal cleanly. To last."

  His smile was serene, as though offering a kindness. I met his gaze without blinking, my silence more eloquent than any curse or plea could have been. He leaned down and brushed a strand of hair from my face with incongruous tenderness. "I look forward to the day you look at me with something other than hatred in those extraordinary eyes."

  Marcelo finally left me alone, securing the door behind him. The silence he left in his wake was almost as oppressive as his presence had been, broken only by the occasional drip of water from somewhere in the corner and the rasp of my own labored breathing.

  I tested the restraints one more time, systematically pulling against each one, searching for any weakness or give in the leather or its fastenings. There was none. Marcelo was nothing if not thorough.

  I closed my eyes. Ellah was somewhere in this building—or nearby, at least—and finding her was my priority. I would not leave this place without her, no matter what it cost me.

  The brand on my back continued to pulse with my heartbeat, but now each throb seemed to whisper a new promise. Survive. Endure. Avenge.

  I allowed myself a moment of weakness then, a single tear that slipped from beneath my closed eyelids and tracked silently down my cheek. Not for myself—never for myself—but for Ellah, who must be enduring her own nightmares somewhere beyond these walls. For Nalah, who had suffered beneath Marcelo's brand before me. For all the Naerithi forced through the portals and enslaved in this world that was not ours.

  Then I dried my eyes on the rough sheets and hardened my resolve once more. Sentiment was a luxury I could not afford. Not now. Not until this was finished.