The laundry press had left a ghost on my skin. My hand the “good” one was now a map of bruising. The iron plate hadn’t broken the bones, but it had crushed the capillaries, leaving a deep, rectangular purple mark across the back of my hand and knuckles. It throbbed in harmony with my right hand, the burned one. I was a symphony of pain, conducted by the Alatorre family. I was in the library again. Killian had ordered me back to the scene of my first collapse. If you fall again, he had warned, I will chain you to the grate. I wasn’t scrubbing the fireplace this time. I was polishing the books. It was a meaningless, Sisyphean task. There were thousands of books, leather-bound and ancient, lining the walls from floor to ceiling. I had to climb the rolling ladder, pull each one out, wipe the dust that wasn’t there, and replace it. With two ruined hands. I stood on the
آخر تحديث : 2025-12-26 اقرأ المزيد