Chapter 47
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
IN WAITING FOR HIM
Death’s fingers slipped from mine moments before I finally heard the familiar cadence of footsteps echoing down the stone corridor.
My three guards, arriving for the evening’s work.
I swallowed, my throat dry as I wiped my palm against the soft fabric of my robe.
Tonight wouldn’t be like the others. Tonight, everything would change.
I closed my eyes, gathering the frayed edges of my resolve around me like armor.
I had planned my escape the entire day, my decision finalized—no more torture, no more captivity.
Tonight, I would escape with Death or die trying.
I moved to the center of my cell, assuming the position they expected.
Arms before me, shoulders squared, chin lifted.
The pose of a prisoner who had learned her role.
But beneath that mask of compliance, my mind raced, retracing angles, distances, moments.
The manacles. The open door. Valen’s approach. The timing had to be perfect.
The barred door slid open with a familiar groan of rusted metal.
The three guards filed in, a well-rehearsed dance of captivity.
The oldest entered first, keys jangling at his belt, his weathered face as impassive as ever.
The middle guard followed, strong and silent, his eyes firm and unyielding.
The youngest came last, his broken nose a badge of my defiance, his gaze cautious as though expecting me to lunge for him again.
“Evening, Princess,” the oldest guard greeted me gruffly, and I realized, suddenly, I didn’t know any of their names.
“What are you called?” I gasped out, needing to know. The urge was so strong, I pressed my hand against my chest. It was as if I couldn’t continue unless I knew who they were. “What are your names?”
The oldest guard blinked, momentarily taken aback by my unexpected question. He glanced at the others, confusion flickering across his features before he turned back to me, a hint of something softer beneath his tough exterior. “I’m Eris,” he said finally, a hint of pride in his voice.
The youngest guard shifted on his feet, glancing toward me with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. “Finn,” he mumbled, almost too quietly to hear.
“And I’m Tavin.” The middle guard’s voice was low, steady as stone. His gaze met mine, revealing something more than mere caution—a flicker of understanding that sent a shiver down my spine.
I nodded in response, extending my empty hands in practiced submission.
Tavin moved to the center of the cell, reaching for the chains that hung from the ceiling—the instruments of my nightly torment.
Metal scraped against stone as he pulled them down to my level, the sound setting my teeth on edge.
The cuffs at the end of those chains were stained dark with old blood—my blood.
“Arms up,” Eris instructed, though I already knew the routine.
I raised my arms, feeling the familiar ache in my shoulders. How many times had I been strung up like this? How many hours had I hung, my body weight suspended from my wrists, while Valen explored the limits of my endurance? Too many to count. But never again.
“Not too tight?” Eris asked, his voice low as he closed the manacle around my right wrist.
I shook my head, meeting his eyes briefly.
There was no cruelty there, just duty. This man had always done what he was ordered to do, nothing more, nothing less.
In another life, under different circumstances, he might have been kind.
Maybe they all would have been. The only kind guards I would have ever come across.
As Finn reached for my left wrist, I felt a pang of something almost like regret. These men were not my enemies, not really. They were just pawns in Valen’s game, as I had been. When I escaped, what would become of them? Valen’s rage would need an outlet, and they would be the closest targets.
The final cuff closed, the familiar weight settling against my skin. Finn checked it twice, always making sure it was secure without being painful. Another small kindness I would remember.
“All set,” he said, stepping back as Tavin began to pull the chain, extending my arms taut above my head. I rose onto my tiptoes, distributing my weight to ease the strain on my shoulders.
Eris nodded once, a final assessment of their work. “He’ll be along shortly,” he said, the same words he spoke every night. A warning. A countdown.
I watched as they filed out, Finn first, then Tavin, and finally Eris.
At the doorway, Eris paused, his hand on the iron bars.
For a moment, I thought he might say something—a warning, perhaps, or some final word of advice.
But he merely nodded, his eyes holding mine for a heartbeat before he left the door ajar, like he always did.
That same regret bloomed further in my chest. It was such an odd feeling to have, but I found myself feeling it regardless.
These guards that had watched me go through pain night after night, who had been companions in my nightmare of a life…
At least I now knew their names. Names I would take to the void and beyond.
The sound of their retreating footsteps echoed down the corridor, growing fainter until silence reclaimed the dungeon. I was alone again, suspended by my wrists, waiting for Valen to arrive.
I was always waiting for Valen to arrive.
I closed my eyes, focusing on my breath, drawing it deep into my lungs. Calm. I needed to be calm. To think clearly. To move at exactly the right moment. One chance was all I would have. One perfect moment to turn the tables on the God of Blood and Conquest.
The silver threads danced more urgently now, as if sensing the approaching confrontation.
The crimson-silver rope connecting me to Valen pulsed with a feverish light, almost blinding in its intensity.
Was it warning me? Urging me forward? I couldn’t tell, and there was no time to decipher its meaning now.
I felt him before I heard him.
My heartbeat quickened, thundering against my ribs so loudly I feared he might hear it even from the corridor. I forced my breathing to remain steady, my expression neutral as I opened my eyes.
I will endure. I will escape. I will not break.
The words became a mantra in my mind as the footsteps drew closer.
And then he was there, standing outside my cell, his tall frame blocking the meager light from the corridor. Valen. My captor. My tormentor. My husband.
He wore a simple black tunic that clung to the broad expanse of his chest, trousers of the same shade, and boots that made almost no sound as he stepped closer to the bars.
His black hair fell loose across his forehead, framing a face that should not have been so beautiful given the cruelty it so often expressed.
For a long moment, he simply stood there, watching me through the bars.
His black eyes, depthless as the void between stars, took in every detail of my suspended form—the way my hair fell across my shoulders, the thin fabric of my robe clinging to my body, the deliberate relaxation of my limbs that belied the tension coiling inside me.
I held his gaze without flinching, remembering the last time we had been together.
The gentle way he had washed my hair, the vulnerable story he had shared about his creation of mortality, the tenderness that had passed between us.
It had been real, that moment. As real as the torture that had preceded it, as real as the escape I now planned.
His lips curved into a slight smile, a gesture that might have been mistaken for warmth by someone who didn’t know better. But I knew him now—knew the layers of calculation behind every expression, every touch, every word.
Slowly, deliberately, he entered through my cell door, swinging it further inward. My heart leapt. He was keeping it open. Just as I had anticipated. Just as I needed it to be.
He approached with unhurried grace, each step bringing him closer to where I hung suspended.
No weapons in his hands tonight, I noted with cautious relief.
No whip, no blades, no implements of the pain he so loved to inflict.
Just his hands, empty and open at his sides.
Those hands that had both hurt and pleasured me, that had torn my flesh and then washed the blood away with surprising gentleness.
He stopped directly before me, close enough that I could feel the unnatural heat radiating from his skin, smell the strange metallic scent that always clung to him—the smell of divinity, of blood, of power beyond mortal comprehension.
I tilted my head back to hold his gaze, my breath catching despite my determination to remain unmoved. This close, I could see the faint crimson that swirled in his eyes, like smoke behind black glass. God’s eyes. Watching me. Weighing me. Wanting me in ways I still didn’t fully understand.
The crimson-silver thread between us pulled taut, vibrating with tension. One last night. One last confrontation. And then, freedom—or death. Either way, my future self hanging broken and empty in these same chains would cease to exist.
I would not become her. I had promised.