Liraine was crying at the edge of the bed, while Nikhael yelled at her for her reckless actions that could've cost her life.
"How many times do I have to tell you to stay out of the Boss's business with that woman, Liraine?!" Nikhael shouted in frustration.
"I've been trying like hell to protect you, but you keep throwing yourself into danger. Because of you, that woman almost died! If she had died and Malric couldn't save her, a lot of people would've died today—Malric, that barmaid whose phone you borrowed, you, and even I would've been dead if he'd failed to save her."
Nikhael let out a heavy sigh, his heart tearing at the sight of Liraine sobbing. He knew her intentions were good—she only wanted to help Isolde, the woman being held prisoner here—but her reckless choices could easily become her downfall.
He knelt before her as she sat hunched and crying by the bed, gently taking her hands into his.
"I don't know exactly what's going on between your brother and that woman," he said softly, "But I know she has something your brother needs. And you can't interfere, not any further. You'll get yourself killed if you keep acting without thinking. I can't keep saving you if you keep making trouble, and I won't be able to do anything if your own brother decides to have you executed."
"So please," he whispered, his voice cracking, "Don't be reckless, Liraine. I can't handle it if you die. You're the only reason I'm still here. You're the only reason I follow all the Boss's orders so perfectly, so I can be with you, so you can stay alive. Please don't make this harder for me."
Nikhael gently stroked the back of her hand with his fingers. "Please... I hate locking you up like this too, but you've left me no choice."
He kissed the back of her hand before rising to his feet and walking out, locking the door behind him. He posted two guards outside to make sure Liraine wouldn't be able to leave the room—no matter what.
.
.
.
Isolde was still struggling to speak. Her voice had started to come back—hoarse, broken—but every word burned. She could only manage a few raspy syllables at a time, and even that felt like hell.
They hadn't forced her to dance again. Maybe it was the gash on her neck—no one would pay to see a girl stumble around with a bandage choking her throat. Or maybe it was something else. Either way, she hadn't dared to ask.
What mattered was that no one dragged her out of her room. Severin hadn't come to use her, either.
But this morning, as she sat there wondering where the hell Liraine had gone—because she hadn't shown up once—Nikhael barged into her room and told her to get ready.
He tossed her a set of clothes. Black. Tight. Functional. Isolde knew right away—they weren't for show. They were made so she could move.
Mikhael led her down the corridor until they reached Michelangelo's The Creation of Adam—a painting she already knew was hiding a passage to the underground.
It would've been a lie to say her heart wasn't slamming in her chest. The last time she'd been taken down there, she'd woken up surrounded by blood, steel, and Malric's hands patching her up in a room full of mutilated corpses.
But Nikhael didn't take her back to the operating room. He led her past it, through the flickering darkness, until they entered a large chamber filled with human-shaped targets lined up like ghosts waiting to be shot.
Severin was already there. Gun in hand. He was loading it, slow and deliberate, before glancing up at her—his eyes dragging from her feet all the way to her face. And then that smirk. That fucking smirk.
Nikhael gave Severin a slight bow before walking out and leaving the two of them alone in the soundproof, bulletproof room.
Severin held out the loaded gun to her. Of course she took it and of course she aimed it straight at his face.
But before she could pull the trigger, Severin was faster. He grabbed her, twisted her around, and forced her arm to point at one of the human targets across the room.
Bang!
The shot cracked through the silence. Dead center. Right in the head.
Severin moved fast—too fast. One second, Isolde had the gun aimed at his face. The next, she was trapped in his arms, her back pressed against his chest. His hand clamped around her still-healing throat, the other guiding her wrist, the one holding the gun, toward the human-shaped target. She could feel his breath against her hair, warm and mocking, tickling her ear.
"You really think you can take me down with this skinny little body of yours?" Severin's fingers brushed her thin arm with derision.
"If you want to fight me, at least fix that body first. Eat. Build some fucking muscle. Maybe then you'd have a shot at hurting me… or at the very least—" His hand slid from her neck to her arm, and then lower—until it grabbed her chest, squeezing hard enough to make her flinch.
"—grow some tits."
His other hand shifted down to her elbow, adjusting her aim. "Now shoot the target. Do it on your own this time. Imagine it's me. Or—if that's not enough—pretend it's your little sister. What was her name again? I forget. Fianne, was it?"
Isolde bit down on her lip. Without Severin's guidance, the gun felt heavier in her grip. Her hands trembled, useless, unable to hold steady.
"Ready. Aim. Fire," Severin whispered into her ear. She pulled the trigger. Missed completely. The bullet slammed uselessly into the wall.
"Again," Severin murmured. His hand stayed exactly where it was—still on her chest, squeezing, owning her again and again until the gun clicked empty.
None of her shots hit the target. Not a single one—except for the first, the one Severin had aimed for her. Even when she pictured Severin's smug face on the target, even when she burned with rage, it wasn't enough. Her fury wasn't strong enough to guide her aim.
She didn't know if it was because she lacked the skill or because Severin's hand on her chest was fucking with her focus.
Two weeks had passed since Isolde stabbed her neck with Severin's folding knife. And for those two weeks, surprisingly, Severin hadn't touched her.
He hadn't shown up at all for the first three nights. But on the fourth night, he came. He didn't fuck her.
She was still cuffed, but not to the pole like usual. This time, her wrists were shackled to the headboard. At the same time, Severin sat on the sofa, arms folded across his chest, staring at her with that same cold, razor-sharp gaze—before eventually falling asleep.
It would've been a lie if Isolde said she wasn't curious. Why the hell did he keep coming to her room if he wasn't going to do anything to her? If all he wanted was to sleep, then why not sleep somewhere else? As far as she could remember, this pleasure house had plenty of rooms—standard, VIP, even hidden rooms and underground levels. Hell, he could've just slept in the same room where he first caught her snooping.
Why here?
That question kept circling in her mind, but every time she thought of asking, something stopped her. Always.
In the past two weeks, Liraine had also started spending less time with her.
Part of it was because Isolde had been busy with firearm training, but also because Liraine once told her that Nikhael had forbidden her from getting too close after Isolde's little self-inflicted stabbing stunt.
Isolde understood. Of course, they blamed Liraine for what happened. And Nikhael—who clearly cared about her—probably just wanted to keep her from being dragged any deeper into the mess.
Still, Liraine made time to visit her at least once a day, even if only for a few minutes. She'd come by before the club opened, ask how Isolde was doing, chat for a bit, and then leave again.
Today was no different. Isolde returned to the underground to continue her shooting practice. There had been a bit of progress. Her grip was steadier, and her aim was beginning to land on the target—though never quite where Severin wanted.
He kept ordering her to shoot the head or chest. But her bullets always landed elsewhere—an arm, a leg, the stomach, or an ear. Every damn time, she missed the kill zone.
"Focus," Severin growled from behind her, voice low and heavy.
How the hell was she supposed to focus when he kept tearing her attention in every damn direction? He barked at her to concentrate, yet his hands never fucking stopped. Always touching and always distracting.
This wasn't training. It felt more like degradation. But what else could she expect from Severin? That man's mind was a goddamn abyss—dark, twisted, and impossible to read.
Her shirt had been shoved up, her bra yanked above her chest, exposing her completely. Severin's hands were cupping her breasts from behind, skin on skin, fingers kneading and twisting her already sensitive nipples.
Isolde blinked hard, trying to stay focused, even though his hot breath ghosted over her neck and ear, even though his fingers suddenly pinched her nipple so harshly that she gasped and jerked—
Bang.
The shot flew wild—straight into the leg of the target. Missed again.
"Hmm… pathetic," Severin's voice came again, far too close to her ear. She could feel his breath as he spoke, humid and invasive.
"Two weeks of training, and you're still fucking useless."
"If you'd stop groping me and actually taught me, I could've hit the damn thing by now," she snapped, her voice shaking with fury. "Two weeks wouldn't have been wasted if you weren't busy getting off on this."
Still, her hands remained raised, trembling but determined, fingers clenched tight around the gun. She tried to aim at him.
But once again, Severin was faster. He snatched the weapon from her grip with ease, then shoved her down to the cold floor like she was nothing.
…