The rope was tight around my hands.
It hurt. The rough fibers dug into my skin.
I sat on the cold floor, my back against the wall.
Ivar stood in front of me, staring. His face looked calm, but his eyes were dark and full of something sharp—hate, and something else I didn’t understand.
He walked slowly around me like a wolf studying his prey.
“You know,” he said softly, “you don’t look like the monster I expected. You look... calm. Weak. Useless. The only good thing about you is your pretty face. You don’t deserve this face.”
His voice made my heart pound faster. I didn’t know what to say.
He tilted his head and smiled—that strange, dangerous smile.
“Don’t look so scared,” he said. “I told you before, I’m not going to kill you yet. I want you to feel what my family felt. I want you
