Liraine had completely vanished from Isolde's sight. After getting treated, Nikhael was still roaming around like usual, going about his duties as if nothing had happened.
Isolde had tried asking him about Liraine several times, but Nikhael would shoot her a cold glare and tell her to mind her business. Don't ask about Liraine. Don't get involved with her. To Nikhael, it was Isolde's fault that Liraine ended up in this mess in the first place.
Despite Nikhael's constant bitterness and the fact that he never spoke to her with anything close to kindness, Isolde could still see he had more of a heart than Severin. It showed in the way he cared for Liraine, enough to die for her just to keep her from being killed by her brother.
As for Liraine's absence from Isolde's side, strangely, Tiffara hadn't bothered her either. The last time Isolde saw her, she couldn't stop staring at the wound on Tiffara's forehead, the one she'd given her. Since then, Tiffara had changed her hairstyle slightly, growing out her bangs just enough to cover it.
The wound wasn't that big. It's still fresh and visible. But with Darcy's treatment, Isolde was sure it would fade with time.
Severin still hadn't returned. It had been nearly a week since he disappeared, and Isolde couldn't be happier. If he never came back, she'd be fine with that. Without him around, life here was... tolerable.
Every morning, Isolde would wake up at the same time, clean herself up, have breakfast, and then head to the underground to train until lunch. After eating, she'd go back downstairs and keep at it until nightfall. When the entertainment house opened, and the customers flooded in, Isolde usually shut herself away in Room 429.
Why? Because she didn't have to dance anymore. At first, she was excused because of her injuries—same as Tiffara, who had also taken time off after their fight. But even after she'd recovered, Nikhael never came to drag her back on stage.
Even when the bandage around her neck came off, Nikhael still didn't force her to go back to stripping. Isolde didn't know whether she should be thankful for that or not.
Today was different. She didn't lock herself in Room 429 when the place opened. Instead, she sat in the lounge and ordered a drink from a barmaid.
Isolde looked around, and her gaze landed on Nikhael, standing in the corner of the room. His eyes were sharp, cutting. But he did nothing, didn't come near, didn't drag her to the stage, and didn't order her back to her room.
She turned her eyes away and looked at the stage where Tiffara performed.
Jealousy crept in. Even with those bangs, Tiffara still looked fucking gorgeous. It reminded Isolde of Olivianne—her father's bastard daughter from an affair with some whore. Olivianne was like Tiffara—every haircut looked good on her. She always looked stunning, even when she was a bloody mess after getting beaten by their father.
Unconsciously, Isolde started comparing them. Olivianne was prettier. But Tiffara had the bigger tits and ass. That was the truth.
When the barmaid placed her drink down, Isolde's thoughts scattered. She watched the girl as she took a sip, and then a memory hit—she remembered the barmaid who'd helped her contact her family.
She cleared her throat and set the glass back down on the bar. "Do you know a curly-haired barmaid? I forgot her name, but she worked the floor like you."
The barmaid seemed to think for a second. "I think I know who you mean. Why are you asking?"
"I want to talk to her. Do you know when her shift starts? Are you switching out with her after yours?"
The girl shook her head. "She's not taking over after me. Someone else is. I don't think you'll be seeing her again."
"Why not? She sick?" Isolde asked, immediately regretting it. The barmaid's answer hit her like a punch in the gut, knocking the air out of her lungs.
"She's dead. She fucked up, and Bos punished her." So the girl got dragged into this shit and killed by Severin just because she let Isolde borrow her phone to contact her family. Isolde wanted to throw up now.
The guilt slammed into her. Someone died because of her. She couldn't drink anymore. The liquid in her mouth tasted like acid, or maybe that was acid from her stomach, crawling up her throat, burning, only to be swallowed back down.
Her steps were shaky as she walked back to her room. The urge to kill Severin with her own hands had never felt stronger. That bastard didn't deserve to keep breathing.
Like he once told her, right after she'd opened her eyes from nearly bleeding to death after stabbing her own throat.
The king with no crown sits on his throne on the blood of all his victims.
I'll drag him off that throne and end his fucking reign.
.
.
.
Isolde had been training like hell the entire time Severin was gone. In her head, the target was always him. Every time she pulled the trigger, she imagined the bullet tearing through Severin's skull. And she let out a quiet, satisfied sigh every time her shot landed perfectly.
She reloaded the gun, but her shoulders tensed the moment she heard the door open. She turned, and there it was. Her worst fucking fear. Severin was back, standing by the door like the bastard ghost he was.
"Looks like you've improved while I was gone," he said as he walked toward her. He got close enough for her to see the bags under his eyes—darker than she remembered.
For a moment, Isolde considered her odds. He looked tired. Maybe, just maybe, if she moved fast, pointed the gun straight at his head, and pulled the trigger, he wouldn't have enough time to stop her. Maybe he'd die here. In this room. The same room that had been her battleground, where she'd poured all her rage into wooden targets now shredded with bullet holes.
But before she could even move, she saw it. That smug fucking smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. Of course. The bastard had already read her mind. He was standing there, waiting, daring her to try it, fully ready to shut it down and use it as another excuse to punish her.
Severin was calculated to the core. He didn't just predict your next move—he twisted it into a weapon for himself.
He even seemed to anticipate when she wouldn't act. One eyebrow arched like he was disappointed. Disappointed, she didn't even try to kill him, despite knowing she'd fail. Maybe he was pissed he didn't get to see that furious, defeated look on her face again. Or maybe he was just annoyed he didn't get to witness the pathetic scene of her trying and failing to kill a mafia boss with skills that didn't even match up to his weakest, lowest-ranked soldier.
"I think your shooting's gotten decent enough," Severin said. "Starting tomorrow, we'll cut down your firearm sessions. You'll be learning hand-to-hand combat with me instead."
He eyed the gun still clenched tightly in her hands. "You've stopped flinching from the recoil. You can aim well enough so long as you're not under pressure. But that's where it ends. You're too slow. And if someone grabs your weapon, you don't know how the fuck to react."
"Every morning from now on, you'll train with me in combat. After lunch, back to the shooting range as usual," he added, making Isolde's brow crease in frustration.
"Why are you doing this? Why the hell are you teaching me how to use a weapon, and now you want to teach me hand to hand combat? What's in it for you? I know damn well you never do anything without a reason."
Severin stepped closer, lifting his hand and gripping Isolde's chin. He forced her to tilt her head and look straight into his face, towering over her.
"Because I want to make you lethal, just like me. You'll be unstoppable. You'll be my next deadly weapon. You'll kill and destroy anything in my way, on my command. You'll be able to take down anyone, except me. I know every move you make, every plan you have, every ambition you hold, because I'm the one shaping you with my own damn hands."
He leaned in closer, his face inches from hers, their noses almost touching. "And I'll make sure it's your hand that ends Lucien's fucking life."
.
.
.
Severin treated Isolde like a goddamn punching bag. He didn't hold back. He hit her, kicked her, just to drive the point home, how fucking weak she still was.
Severin easily blocked her and knocked her down repeatedly every time she tried to strike. Her whole body ached. This was worse than those shooting sessions where he'd grope her while she tried to focus on her target.
Isolde forced herself to stand again, even after being slammed to the floor for the nth time. Her breath was ragged, her hair a mess, completely unlike Severin, who still looked composed, untouched, with no scratch on him.
"Your attacks are pathetic," he said coldly. "They're soft as fucking feathers. Hits like that won't do shit to your enemy."
He flicked his hand again, signaling her to try hitting him one more time, even though they both knew how it would end.
Isolde charged forward again, trying to land a punch, but just like before, Severin swatted her hand away, twisted her arm behind her back, and wrenched it until she screamed.
She hated this. She hated how he always ended up pinning her, locking her body in place, whispering shit in her ear like he owned her.
"You need to build some muscle, your attacks are even more pathetic than a fucking child's," Severin whispered into Isolde's ear before shoving her, sending her sprawling to the floor, released from his grip.
"Again," he ordered coldly, even though Isolde's body already felt wrecked.
…