The room fell into an eerie stillness, broken only by the distant echo of the jaguar still licking its bloodied fangs.
Damian turned with measured steps, the soft thud of his boots echoing ominously on the marble floor. He raised a single hand lazily, and one of the elite warriors immediately stepped forward, bowing low.
“Go tell the kitchen maid,” Damian said, his voice smooth as silk and sharp as a blade, “to bring me a large pot of boiling oil. And a makeshift cooking stand.”
The warrior didn’t question. He bowed again, and hurried out with terrifying efficiency.
Zara blinked, her sweat-matted hair clinging to her face. Her heart thumped so violently she feared it might rip through her chest. But it was the glint in Damian’s eyes—the way his lips curled in a smile that never reached
