The DON's Princess
But he only chuckled, a sound so devilish it made my blood run cold.
“Oh, you’re a pretty one, aren’t you?” he sneered, his hands brushing roughly through my hair, yanking strands painfully. “Too bad pretty faces never last long.”
He turned away, walking toward a nearby table covered in instruments. The sight made my stomach churn—a saw, pliers, knives. He arranged them carefully, like a doctor in an operating room.
Sweat trickled down my temples as my heart raced, pounding in my ears. “Please,” I begged again, louder this time, but my voice was weak. The man was unmoved—he was a monster wearing a man’s skin.
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