I awoke simultaneously feeling ill and also much better than I had over the last few days. Although the meat broth that Dario had fed to me in an effort to raise my strength turned in my stomach and threatened to reappear, it had given me more energy than I had since being poisoned.

  My arms and legs still felt like they belonged to someone else—heavy, distant things stretched in four directions on the damp mattress. The ropes binding me to the bedposts had worn raw patches into my wrists and ankles, and the brand on my shoulder throbbed in time with my heartbeat, a constant reminder of what Marcelo had taken from me.

  Hearing footsteps at the back entrance to the cellar area, I lay my head back down, pretending to be asleep still. The uneven scrape of boots against stone grew louder. Different from Dario's careful tread. Heavier. More urgent. The cellar door banged open and shut, hinges protesting with a metallic shriek that set my teeth on edge. Through mostly closed eyes, I watched a figure move around the room. Marcelo, in a rush and currently looking for something.

  He moved to the bed with a blade in his hand and my heart seized in my chest. My breath caught, turning shallow and quick. Fear, raw and primal, flooded my system—a feeling I'd rarely known before these walls, before him. My body tensed involuntarily, muscles clenching in anticipation of fresh pain.

  Days and nights of his visits had taught me what came next. The methodical cutting. The violations I couldn't stop. Memories crashed through my mind—the blade dragging across my flesh in precise patterns, the sound of my own screams bouncing off stone walls as I finally broke, the coppery scent of blood mixing with his cologne.

  I struggled to keep up the charade of sleep, but a tremor ran through me that I couldn't control. Marcelo had done this—had crafted this fear response over many hours of dedicated torture. He had found the cracks in my armor and pried them open, one cut at a time.

  He had approached my bed many times recently with a knife in his hand, and this time I was surprised when all he did was cut the ropes holding me onto the bed.

  Marcelo smacked the flat of the blade onto the back of my shoulder where the brand was still raw and slowly healing. The impact sent lightning through my nervous system, a white-hot explosion that started at the wound and radiated outward in waves. The branded flesh screamed with fresh agony. For a moment, the world went white at the edges, sound receding as my body processed the shock.

  I let out a loud whimper of pain that embarrassed me even as it escaped my lips. This was what he'd reduced me to. I, who had stood unflinching in countless arena fights, now curled into a protective ball at his slightest touch. I drew my knees to my chest, making myself small, anticipating where the next blow would land.

  My fingers wrapped around my wrists, feeling the damage there. The rope bindings had worn away layers of skin, blood and clear fluid oozing from the deepest spots where I had strained against my restraints during the worst of the torture. Some areas had begun to scab over, only to be torn open again with each new struggle. Despite the pain, I couldn't stop touching them, reassuring myself that the ropes were truly gone.

  The simple freedom to move my limbs felt almost overwhelming after days of forced immobility. My joints cracked as I shifted, muscles trembling with weakness. Even in this pathetic state, a small flame of satisfaction burned within me. I was free of the restraints. It was something.

  Marcelo leaned down, his shadow falling across me like a physical weight. His hand shot out, fingers digging into my chin with bruising force, twisting my face upward until I had no choice but to meet his gaze.

  His face hovered inches from mine, close enough that I could see the tiny scar at the corner of his mouth from some long-ago fight. I could smell the wine on his breath but it couldn't quite mask his natural scent—sweat tinged with the metallic edge of fear. He was afraid. The realization sent a whisper of power through me, even as his fingers dug deeper into the soft underside of my jaw.

  "Come on, let's go, it's time to leave."

  I slowly pushed my legs around, sitting up on the edge of the bed and rubbed my face with my hands. Every joint protested, shooting needles of pain up my limbs. I winced painfully as the muscles in my body which had been held in the spread eagle position for so long finally got to move once again. My legs trembled beneath me, weak from disuse.

  "What's going on? Where is Ellah?" My voice came out raspy, throat raw from screaming during previous sessions with Marcelo.

  Marcelo let out a scoffing noise. "She's nothing to worry about now. Move it!"

  From upstairs came a muffled sound of a pained screech and my head swiveled quickly to the door. The sound raised the hairs on the back of my neck. "What's happening?"

  Instead of answering, Marcelo grabbed my wrist and yanked, expecting to drag me off the bed onto my feet. We were both surprised when I resisted his strength. The fog of poison had begun to clear from my system, and with it, some of my natural strength had returned.

  I looked down at his hand on my wrist and chuckled softly. The sound was rough in my throat, devoid of humor but full of promise. Our eyes met and I rose to my feet slowly, shaking my hair back over my shoulders. Though I stood in front of him naked, bruised, and bloodied, I was still gratified to see a small shadow of fear enter his expression.

  In one fluid motion, I spun the wrist that was being held, twisting against his grip until my palm faced upward. My hand curled, and I dug the claws of that hand deep into the soft underside of the wrist that was holding me. My claws sank into his flesh with a deliberate slowness I savored. There was a moment of resistance as they met his skin, then a series of distinct pops as each claw punctured through the layers. The final give as they sank into the soft tissue beneath sent a thrill of satisfaction through me.

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  Marcelo's eyes widened in shock. Blood welled up around my embedded claws, streaming between my knuckles and down his forearm in thin rivulets. The warmth of it against my cold skin was startling, intimate in a way that turned my stomach.

  "You bitch," he hissed, the words strangled with pain and surprise.

  His cry echoed off the stone walls as I twisted my hand, feeling tendons and veins shift beneath my grip. I had missed his main artery, but caught enough smaller vessels to make the wound significant. For the first time since my capture, I was causing him pain instead of receiving it. The role reversal was intoxicating.

  Instinct and training took over as he lashed out with the blade in his other hand. The knife flashed in the dim light of the cellar. I tried to pivot away from the strike, muscles bunching to propel me backward. Although my mind remembered the movements, my body betrayed me. My reflexes were dulled, muscles responding a crucial half-second too slowly. My poisoned system had not yet fully recovered, my limbs still heavy and uncooperative.

  The blade sliced through the air where I had been, then adjusted its trajectory with practiced precision. I raised my free arm to deflect, but too late. The knife cut through the front of my shoulder, parting skin and muscle as though they were water. I felt the blade sink into my flesh a couple of inches, grating against my collarbone before he wrenched it back out.

  The wound bloomed with heat before pain registered—a strange disconnect that lasted only a heartbeat before agony crashed through me. Blood poured from the clean slice, running down my chest in warm streams that pooled in the hollow of my clavicle before spilling downward.

  We fought hand to hand for another few moments with Marcelo getting most of the strikes in and me just holding him back, defending myself as best I could from his blade. His training showed in his precise movements, each cut placed to maximize pain without causing fatal damage. My body responded sluggishly to my commands, muscles weak from days of immobility and poison. Still, I managed to block or dodge most of his attacks, though some found their mark, adding fresh lines of red to my collection.

  The door at the top of the stairs started banging and we both turned, recognizing the sound of someone trying to break the door down. Wood splintered with each impact, the crack like bones breaking. Dust and splinters rained down from the frame, catching the dim light.

  Looking over to see Marcelo's attention fixed on the stairs, I noticed his knife hand drop momentarily away from his body. His stance shifted, weight resting on his back foot. I stepped forward, driving my other foot up painfully between his legs. The impact was solid, my bare foot connecting with soft tissue. A jolt of savage satisfaction ran through me as I felt the blow land, as his breath hitched in shock.

  Marcelo let out a howl of pain that rebounded off the stone walls. In that same moment, the door above finally gave way with a thunderous crack. Heavy boots pounded down the wooden steps, each footfall sending vibrations through the floor.

  Jacobi appeared first, filling the narrow staircase with his broad shoulders. Selwyn followed close behind, face taut with determination. They rushed down, freezing at the foot of the staircase as they absorbed the scene before them—me standing naked, covered in blood and bruises, fresh wounds still weeping; Marcelo doubled over in pain.

  Time seemed to slow. I watched their expressions transform as they cataloged my injuries. Jacobi's face hardened to granite, jaw clenching tight enough I could hear his teeth grind. Selwyn's features twisted with horror and rage, his normally gentle eyes darkening to something feral and dangerous.

  Marcelo straightened slowly, putting distance between himself and the brothers. He took three measured steps toward the cellar door, his breathing controlled now despite the pain. Something in his posture—the set of his shoulders, the angle of his head—triggered my instincts. My nostrils flared, catching the sharp metallic scent of his sweat mixed with something darker. Intent.

  "Don't-" I started to warn, but Marcelo had already spun back toward us, his movement fluid and practiced.

  The knife left his hand with a soft whistle of displaced air. I tracked its arc through the dim light, saw Selwyn still frozen at the bottom of the stairs, watched the blade spinning directly toward his chest. The brothers hadn't recognized the threat yet, their attention still locked on me.

  My muscles responded before conscious thought. Despite the pain searing through my body, I lunged forward. The distance between us stretched like eternity. Each step sent fresh agony up my legs, my vision narrowing to the spinning blade. I could taste copper in my mouth, feel my heart hammering against my bruised ribs.

  Time snapped back to normal speed as I threw myself into the dagger's path. My bare feet slapped against the cold stone floor, the sound startlingly loud in the sudden silence.

  I felt the dagger cut into my back painfully, the blade slicing through my skin and muscle again with sickening ease.

  By the time the brothers looked up toward Marcelo, he had vanished. The cellar door swung loose on its hinges, banging rhythmically against the frame with each gust of cold air that swept in from outside. The sound echoed through the space like a heartbeat, steady and mocking. They were too late.

  Jacobi took a half-step toward the door, but stopped when he heard my ragged breath. The only evidence of Marcelo's final attack was his dagger buried in my back, its hilt protruding between my shoulder blades. Blood flowed freely from the wound, painting warm trails down my spine, joining the dried remnants of earlier tortures. The metallic scent of fresh blood filled the air between us.

  I turned slowly to face them, my body a catalog of what Marcelo had done. Cuts in various stages of healing criss-crossed my skin. Bruises bloomed across my ribs and thighs in shades of deep purple, blue, and sickly yellow.

  Despite everything, the pain radiating from the knife in my back, the weakness threatening to overwhelm me, the memories of torture still fresh in my mind, I felt something unfamiliar warm my chest. These men had broken down doors and descended into darkness to find me.

  I gave them a small smile, trying to show them that beneath the blood and bruises, I was still me. Still fighting. The smile stretched the split in my lip, reopening the wound, but I didn't care.

  "You found me," I whispered, the words scraping my raw throat.

  My legs finally gave way beneath me, muscles trembling before surrendering completely. I sank down onto one knee before them, blood from the knife wound trickling down to pool on the stone floor beneath me. The room tilted and swayed around me, edges of my vision darkening. Still, I kept my eyes on them, these men who had come to save me, as consciousness began to slip away.