Severin should've been enjoying the pathetic little tragedy playing out in front of him, watching it like some kind of fucked-up theater show. But instead, his eyes were fixed on Isolde, standing right there before him.
He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up until their eyes met his cold, ash-grey stare, locking with her warm brown one.
"If you want Nikhael to live, you're gonna have to give me something," he said, voice low and menacing. "Something worth the price of his life. Something interesting."
Isolde's lips parted slowly. "I don't have anything to give you," she said bitterly.
"I've got no money. I don't even own my fucking body or my life. What else is left to offer? You've already used me like I'm not even human, as if I'm just some fuck toy with no feelings. You dragged me into this hell and forced me to keep breathing when all I ever wanted was to die." Severin's thumb slid up from her chin to her bottom lip, stroking it slowly.
"You can give me something," he whispered. "When Maxen comes back here, you won't sleep with him anymore. You'll push him away."
Isolde frowned, confusion tightening her features. She didn't understand. Why the fuck did he care?
"That's my fucking job, isn't it?" she spat.
"You're the one who called me a whore. You're the one who lost his shit when no man wanted to rent me. And now that there's one man who actually comes to me every night, you want me to reject him? What the actual fuck is wrong with you?" Severin was like some unsolvable puzzle, a maze of cruelty and twisted logic that Isolde would never untangle.
"You're dangerous for Maxen," Severin said coldly.
"And Maxen's useful to me. Him and his twin, they're both damn good with weapons. Guns, blades, whatever the fuck you hand them. But you?" He scowled. "You make him soft. And I don't want weakness in my ranks. Especially not because of some bitch like you."
He slid his thumb into her mouth, pressing it against her warm tongue without a second of hesitation. Isolde squeezed her eyes shut just as Liraine's scream tore through the room—she was yelling Nikhael's name.
There wasn't much time left.
"…Fine," Isolde whispered. "I won't sleep with Maxen anymore. Just save Nikhael. Please."
Without missing a beat, Severin snapped his fingers. His men rushed to untie Nikhael, who was barely conscious now, his skin ghostly pale. "Take him to Ivan," Severin ordered.
Then Severin turned back to Isolde, voice like a blade.
"And now, it's time you take your punishment for failing to shoot Nikhael like I fucking told you to."
He pulled his thumb from her mouth, then grabbed the back of her neck, forcing her forward, shoving her toward the exit like a fucking object.
Severin dragged Isolde back to Room 429, locking the door behind them before shoving her onto the bed. His hand moved to retrieve his switchblade as he advanced toward her, climbing onto the bed and slicing through her clothes with the cold, sharp edge.
The blade hovered precariously over Isolde's skin, tracing a slow, deliberate path down her neck, across her chest, over her stomach, past her navel, and finally stopping at the waistband of her underwear. With one ruthless flick, Severin cut through the fabric, then pressed the tip of the blade against her pelvis—ready to carve his initials into her flesh.
Isolde bit down on her lip to stifle any cry, squeezing her eyes shut in a futile hope that the pain might lessen if she couldn't see it. But the sharp edge bit deep, slicing into her skin until she felt the warm rush of blood spilling down her hips, dripping onto the sheets.
"Open your eyes. Look at me." Severin's voice was rough, commanding. When Isolde obeyed, she found his gaze locked onto hers—and to her horror, he looked... turn on?
"Don't bite your lip. If you want to scream in pain, then scream." Severin commanded again, resuming the movement of his blade. What had begun as a single horizontal cut now extended into another line, carving a cruel 'S' into her skin.
Isolde shrieked in agony, and the wound was deep, the pain searing. But her suffering only seemed to amuse Severin. He dragged his fingers through the blood welling from the wound, then smeared it across her body, down her neck, over her collarbone, across her chest, and finally between her thighs.
Isolde could feel him hardening against her leg. When their eyes met again, Severin's gaze was clouded with lust, dark and predatory.
He forced her legs apart, undid his zipper, and thrust into her in one sharp, merciless motion—never breaking eye contact as he reveled in pain, twisting her expression.
His blood-smeared hand pushed back the hair clinging to Isolde's face, tucking it behind her ear before trailing down her cheekbone and her jaw, staining her skin crimson.
"You might not be as pretty as Tiffara," he growled, his voice thick with desire, "and your body isn't as perfect as hers. But you look fucking beautiful in red." His hips snapped forward, burying himself deeper. "Covered in blood, you're irresistible. It makes me want to come all over you—mix your red with my white."
With a final, brutal thrust, he spilled inside her, leaving Isolde trembling beneath him, marked, violated, and painted in the proof of his cruelty.
.
.
.
Isolde stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at her reflection—disheveled, stained with her own dried blood. Her eyes dropped to the fresh wound on her lower stomach, a deep carved 'S'—Severin's initial.
She turned around and switched on the shower. The moment the water hit her skin, she flinched in pain.
This was just the first punishment. She had fired four shots and missed every single one. None met Severin's twisted expectations.
There are three punishments left. And Isolde had no doubt they'd only get worse.
.
.
.
Nikhael survived. That bastard didn't die. Liraine looked relieved, but guilt still clung to her face like a shadow.
It didn't take long for Nikhael to recover. He disappeared for a few days, treated underground, and by day three, he was back on his feet, back to work like nothing had happened.
But Liraine? She was gone. She hadn't shown her face to Isolde since.
Maybe she locked herself away, or maybe Nikhael locked her up on Severin's orders. Either way, the last time Isolde saw her, Liraine looked broken and haunted. Severin had interrogated her, and that shit wasn't light. It had left bodies in its wake.
Apparently, Liraine had ratted out everyone who had helped her secretly pass letters to Lucien—right under Severin's nose. She also confessed something about the candles.
Isolde didn't understand what the fuck the candle part meant. She never got a chance to ask Liraine. Still, there was a twisted sense of relief knowing Severin was gone for now.
After executing a few of his men for betrayal, men who believed Severin didn't deserve his current power, claiming the position should've belonged to Lorenzo Severin, had vanished again.
And Isolde hoped he'd stay gone forever. Not that it was likely.
But at the very least, she prayed he'd be gone long enough. Long enough for her to breathe. Because she wasn't ready not even close to face the next three punishments waiting for her when he returned.
After another round of shooting practice, she was on her way back to her room when she ran into Malric. He was just leaving the underground. They stepped into the elevator together.
"I heard Maxen and Mathias finished their mission again," Malric said, voice casual. "Didn't even take a full month. You'll be seeing them again soon."
Isolde didn't answer, just let out a quiet hum, barely a response. There was nothing left to hope for from Maxen. Suppose even Nikhael—Severin's most trusted, the second-strongest person in this place—could be brought to his knees, drenched in his blood just for one mistake. What the hell could Maxen do?
He wasn't her escape. He never was.
Even if she managed to escape, Isolde's family would be the target. No one could pull her out of this suffocating hell unless Severin himself decided to let her go.
And Severin… he didn't seem like he'd ever let her go. He wouldn't even give her up to death, not even when death was staring her in the fucking face.
"Your attack was pathetic," Severin said coldly.
"So weak it felt like being hit with fucking cotton. That kind of strike won't do shit to your enemy." He flicked his fingers, signaling her to come at him again, even though they both knew how it would end.
Isolde stepped forward and tried to hit him again. And once again, Severin effortlessly caught her arm, twisted it behind her back, and she cried out in pain.
She hated this. She hated the way he did this—locking her body in place, whispering right into her fucking ear.
"You need to train your muscles," Severin growled against her ear.
"That punch was sadder than a toddler's slap." Then he shoved her, sending her crashing to the floor, released from his grip.
"Again," he ordered, voice sharp and merciless, even though her body already felt like it had been fucking smashed to pieces.
.
.
.
Isolde ate lunch like a starving lunatic. For the first time since being trapped in this place, she finished the whole damn plate. No gagging, no pushing the food around, no pretending.
Training with Severin had drained every ounce of her energy. She was starving. And she needed strength because next up was shooting practice, only this time, the target wasn't a still paper board. Now it moved.
Side to side. Faster each time she landed a hit. And she had to adjust her aim accordingly—to make sure the bullet struck exactly where she intended.
Trying to shoot after being thrown around like a rag doll wasn't easy. Her body throbbed, sharp pain pulsing through every limb. Her wrist twisted during Severin's earlier hold struggled to grip the pistol properly.
Still, she managed to get through the final session. Her first few bullets went completely off, but by the end, she was landing clean shots.
After training, Isolde went straight back to her room and slipped into a hot bath. Letting the water soothe her sore muscles, trying to relax the constant tension running through her body.
The small cuts and bruises from Severin's training stung when the soapy water touched them—but at least it was pain she could manage. At least this pain made sense.
When Isolde stepped out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but a bathrobe over her bare skin, the door swung open without warning. Severin walked in at a time that was anything but usual.
She knew this would happen eventually. She knew she'd be expected to serve him again the moment he returned. But normally, Severin didn't show up until after the club was open after he'd watched Tiffara, his favorite whore, perform.
She hadn't even had time to brace herself—she hadn't prepared for whatever twisted cruelty he'd throw at her this time.
Instinctively, Isolde tightened the robe around her body as Severin stepped closer. She didn't look up. She didn't dare meet his eyes.
He stood towering over her, and instead of facing him, she stared down at his polished leather shoes. They looked expensive. Of course, they did.
Even without looking, she could feel him. She could feel his breath just above her, sense him leaning in to inhale the scent of her damp hair and watch his chest rise and fall, slow and deliberate.
"You smell nice," Severin whispered above her head. Isolde said nothing.
She didn't know if she was supposed to speak. She didn't know what would piss him off this time. The wrong word, the wrong look—and he might snap. And her body already felt like fucking rubble. She couldn't take another beating just because he was in a mood.
It's not that she was afraid of dying—she'd long since lost her fear of that. But that didn't mean she liked pain.
…