Damian's boots echoed ominously against the cold stone floor as he turned slowly to Lucian.
“Get her a chair,” he said, his voice disturbingly calm.
Lucian blinked, confused. A chair?
But the moment his eyes caught Damian’s devilish grin—the one that only appeared when he was about to do something unspeakably cruel—Lucian said nothing. He turned and motioned to one of the guards, who quickly brought a high-backed wooden chair with iron legs. Heavy. Sturdy. The kind meant to restrain.
Damian walked toward Zara, took her trembling hand with mock gentleness, and guided her into the seat as if she were royalty. His sarcasm dripped with venom.
“There,” he cooed. “Our guest of honor should be comfortable. You’ve done so well, Zara. Brilliant planning. Astounding betrayal. You truly deserve
