Selene’S POV
The dungeon smelled like iron and old water blood soaked into stone so deep it, it had become part of the place. I felt it before I saw it, a pressure in my chest that had nothing to do with the mate bond but everything to do with memory. Pain remembered pain and chains remembered flesh. I stepped into the torchlit room and found him.
She stepped into the torchlight and found him.
Dante hung from the ceiling by silvered chains that cut into his wrists and shoulders, his boots barely brushing the floor. His head was bowed, dark hair falling into his eyes, his chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths. Bruises marred his skin deep purples and sickly yellows, layered evidence of days, maybe weeks, of punishment. There was dried blood at his temple. Fresh blood at his mouth. For
