29. Rylan
29
RYLAN
S he thinks she can outlast me.
She thinks she can endure.
But I have broken men far stronger than her.
Seraphina stands before me, shoulders squared, chin lifted in that way that makes my blood simmer—defiant even in the face of her own undoing.
The stench of blood still clings to the air from the corpses in her room. The assassins Lartina sent did not get what they came for.
But I did.
Proof.
They came for her. They wanted her alive. That means something.
It means she is valuable in a way she has not admitted.
A human slave should not be worth this much trouble. A human slave should not have assassins sent to retrieve her.
But Seraphina isn’t just any human.
There must be something here I’m missing.
Something dangerous.
And I intend to find out what.
I don’t take her to her quarters.
I don’t let her clean the blood from her skin or steady herself from the night’s terror.
Instead, I bring her to the dungeon beneath the Midnight Den.
She knows something is wrong the moment we descend the stone steps.
The air grows colder, heavier with the smell of rust and damp rot.
The torches lining the walls flicker dimly, casting long, jagged shadows.
She doesn’t speak.
But I feel her hesitation.
The way her breath slows.
The way her steps stiffen.
She isn’t afraid of me.
Not yet.
But she should be.
The dungeon is silent when we step inside.
At first.
Then—a wet, choked sound.
A whimper of agony.
Seraphina halts mid-step.
I smile. Slow. Merciless.
"Surprised?" I murmur.
She doesn’t answer.
Her hands twitch at her sides, her breathing controlled—but I see the way her pulse thrums wildly at her throat.
"Don’t look so tense, little thief," I say, circling her. "This isn’t for you."
Not yet.
A metal door creaks open.
The stench of fresh blood thickens.
And then we see him.
The thing hanging from the chains.
Once a dark elf.
Now—a ruined husk.
Flesh flayed open in strips. Skin torn and bruised, an unrecognizable mess of pain and suffering.
Seraphina inhales sharply.
She tries to hide it—tries to mask the way her body tightens, the way her fingers curl into fists.
But I see it.
I always see it.
I step past her, picking up the whip hanging from the stone wall.
Its leather coils are dark with old blood, glistening in the dim torchlight.
I run my fingers over the surface, thoughtful.
"You see," I murmur, my voice a silken whisper, "an information broker like me is an expert in making people talk."
I turn toward her, letting the whip drag against the stone floor, slow, deliberate.
Seraphina’s breath stutters.
Just for a second.
But I hear it.
I feel the way her muscles coil, the way her body reacts to the danger creeping closer.
Good.
She should be afraid.
Because the game we’ve been playing?
It ends tonight.
I lift the whip.
Crack.
It snaps against the air, the sound slicing through the dungeon like a sword meeting flesh.
Seraphina flinches.
Only slightly.
But enough.
Enough for me to see that she is not as unshakable as she pretends to be.
Enough for me to know that she is imagining it against her own skin.
I step closer.
Brush it against her wrist.
Light. Barely there.
But enough for her to feel.
To imagine.
Her lips press into a tight line.
Her breath—too controlled.
I smile.
And then she speaks.
"Wow," she muses, tilting her head, eyes scanning the whip in my hands. "Didn’t take you for a whips and chains kind of guy."
I pause.
The smirk I’d been toying with vanishes.
Seraphina grins.
And gods help me, she even winks.
A slow, deliberate thing that sets my blood boiling.
My grip tightens around the leather handle.
"Amusing," I say, voice smooth, even. "Does humor help when you’re afraid?"
She shrugs. "I don’t know. Does a whip help when you’re compensating?"
A breath of silence.
My jaw tenses.
She is baiting me.
Trying to turn fear into something flippant. Trying to make me the fool.
It almost works.
But then—I see it.
The way she keeps her hands still at her sides.
The way her weight shifts subtly to one foot, as if preparing to move.
And the tremor.
Barely there.
But real.
Fear.
I smile again, slow and sharp.
Ah.
There it is.
I let the whip drag across the floor once more, circling her as if considering her joke.
"You’re amusing," I admit. "But humor won’t save you."
Her lips curl slightly. "Who said I was trying to be saved?"
I cock my head. "Is that so?"
She gestures lazily toward the whip. "You’re obviously very... experienced with that thing."
I arch a brow.
"And?"
Her grin widens. "If you’re looking for a sparring partner, I suppose I could learn how to use it. Unless—" she pauses, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "—you’re the kind of guy who prefers being on the receiving end?"
A slow, creeping heat coils in my chest.
I should be angry.
I should want to break her for this insolence.
But damn her—there is something wicked about the way she looks at me.
A glint of something almost... teasing.
I chuckle. Low. Dangerous.
"You think you’d be the one holding the whip, little thief?"
She shrugs. "You’re the one dragging it across my skin like you want me to practice."
I exhale through my nose, amused despite myself.
"Careful," I murmur, trailing the whip's handle along the delicate line of her jaw. "You might enjoy it too much."
She smirks. "What a coincidence. I was thinking the same about you."
Gods.
I almost laugh.
Almost.
I lift the whip again, dragging it along the floor once more, then let it graze her skin—a whisper-light touch.
She shivers. Holds her breath.
Her body reacts before her mind can stop it.
I see it.
I feel it.
I lean in, voice a quiet promise.
"You’re stronger than I thought," I murmur. "But we both know even steel bends before it breaks. I intend to find exactly where you shatter."