Isabella’s point of view The room is silent except for the drip… drip… drip of blood hitting the floor. Rufus is hanging by his wrists, barely conscious, his body a patchwork of bruises, burns, and open wounds. The scent of scorched flesh clings to the walls like rot. I circle him slowly, a jagged blade in hand—one of my favorites. Thin enough to slice cleanly, sharp enough to peel skin like paper. “I once begged you for mercy,” I say softly, running the blade along his collarbone, not yet cutting. “And you laughed. Remember that?” His only response is a rasping breath, barely audible over the sound of his own suffering. I lean in, voice ice-cold. “Where is she, Rufus? Where is my daughter?” He lifts his head with effort, blood crusted at the corners of his mouth. “Still sentimental… I thought the years would harden you properly.” “They did. You just weren’t around to see it.” I stab the blade into his thigh and twist. His scream fills the chamber, echoing off the stone like
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