Chapter 12

For three days, the cellar became Lydia’s entire world—a dark, suffocating box of stone and agony.

The hours bled into one another, marked only by the sound of their laughter and the pain that never stopped. They took turns with her, day and night, fuelled by a cruel excitement that seemed to grow the more she suffered. Every time she tried to shut down, to slip away into her own mind, they would find a way to bring her back—a fist to the ribs, a slap across the face, or the cold sting of the needle.

“She’s still got some fight in her,” Jax remarked on the second day, wiping sweat from his forehead. He looked down at Lydia, who lay curled on the damp floor, her skin bruised and her clothes little more than rags.

“Then we’ll just have to beat it out of her,” the scarred man replied.

He stepped forward and kicked her in the ribs—not a hard enough blow to break anything, but enough to make her gasp and curl tighter. “Get up, princess. We aren’t done.”

“She hasn’t eaten in two days,” the man with the dagger noted, leaning against the wall. “She’s looking thin. Skin’s getting pale.”

“Good,” Jax said, a sick grin spreading across his face. “Makes her easier to handle. Besides, she doesn’t need food. Just water and that needle.” He picked up the syringe, the glass catching the dim light. “The wolfsbane keeps her just weak enough that she can’t scream too loud. It’s perfect.”

Lydia’s fingers twitched against the dirt. Her stomach felt like it was eating itself, a hollow, gnawing ache that never went away.

“Hey, look at her,” the dagger man said, stepping closer and nudging her rib with his boot. “She’s barely even twitching anymore.”

“That’s the best part,” Jax replied, his voice low and satisfied. He knelt beside her, his hand gripping her hair to force her head up. Her neck felt weak, her muscles refusing to hold her weight. “The more we use her, the less she fights back. It’s like breaking a horse.”

The scarred man walked over, holding the syringe up like a trophy. “Third day’s dose. Let’s see if she can even swallow it this time.”

He pressed the needle into her arm without hesitation. Lydia’s body jolted—a small, pathetic spasm—as the cold liquid flooded her veins again.

“There,” the scarred man said, pulling the needle back and tossing it onto the dirt. “That should keep her nice and quiet for a while.”

Lydia’s head lolled to the side. The world was tilting, the walls closing in like they were made of heavy shadow. Her throat felt constricted, every swallow an effort that made her stomach churn. The hunger was a constant, dull roar now, eclipsed only by the throbbing ache in her body and the poison spreading through her blood.

“She’s almost gone,” the man with the dagger whispered, leaning down to inspect her face. He traced a finger over her split lip, which had swollen shut over the last few days. “Look at those eyes. There’s nothing left in ’em.”

“Not yet,” Jax countered, his voice rough. He stood up and grabbed her ankle, pulling her limp body toward him across the stone floor.

Lydia’s body dragged across the rough stone, her skin scraping against the grit. She didn’t even wince; she couldn’t. The sensations were distant now, like someone else was being hurt instead of her.

“She’s lighter than she was yesterday,” Jax remarked, his grip tightening on her ankle. “Must be the no food. Makes her feel like she’s made of nothing.”

“Perfect,” the scarred man said, stepping into her space. He leaned down and grabbed her jaw, forcing her mouth open. “Let’s see if she can still take it.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He shoved his fingers into her mouth, stretching her lips wide while the others watched with hungry eyes. Lydia’s throat constricted, a weak sob catching in her chest, but the wolfsbane turned the sound into nothing more than a faint rattle.

“Look at that,”

“She’s still trying to fight it,” the scarred man said, his eyes gleaming. “Even with her mouth stretched open like that, you can see it in her eyes. She’s still in there somewhere.”

“Let’s give her something to really fight,” Jax said, stepping closer. He reached down and grabbed her other arm, pinning it above her head. “Hold her steady.”

The man with the dagger moved to her legs, his hands rough as he spread them apart. Lydia’s body felt like it belonged to someone else—a broken doll being moved around by hands that didn’t care if they snapped her. The hunger was a sharp claw in her gut, but the wolfsbane kept it muffled, turning the agony into a dull, heavy fog.

“She’s so small,” the man pinning her shoulders remarked, his voice almost conversational. “Like she’d snap if we pressed too hard.”