Isolde ate lunch like a mad woman. Training with Severin had drained her so much that she felt ravenous. She needed the energy to keep going, especially now that her shooting practice had moved on to moving targets instead of a stationary board.
The target slid left and right. Every time she hit it, it sped up. Isolde had to adjust her aim fast to keep hitting exactly where she wanted.
Practicing shooting after getting slammed to the ground over and over by Severin wasn't easy. Her whole body ached like hell. Her sprained wrist made it hard to hold the gun properly, but she did well in the final session, even though her first few shots went completely off-mark.
After the session, Isolde returned to her room and soaked in warm water, trying to relax her stiff, screaming muscles. The scrapes on her body from Severin's attacks stung as the soapy water hit them.
When the door swung open, she had just stepped out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but a bathrobe loosely wrapped around her bare body. Severin walked in at a time he usually didn't.
Isolde knew she'd end up 'serving' Severin sooner or later, especially now that he was back. But he usually came after the pleasure house was already in operation after watching Tiffara, his favorite whore, perform.
She hadn't even had time to brace herself for whatever cruelty he had planned this time. Without realizing it, Isolde tightened the knot of her robe as Severin approached. She didn't look at his face as he loomed in front of her, but instead, she stared at his expensive leather shoes.
Even without looking up, she knew he was breathing in the scent of her wet hair. She could see his chest rise and fall.
"You smell nice," Severin whispered above her head. Isolde didn't know if she should respond. She was afraid that if she said the wrong thing, he'd hit her.
Her body already felt shattered, and getting beat up again for pissing him off wasn't something she wanted. Sure, she tended to flirt with death, but that didn't mean she enjoyed being hurt.
Severin's rough, calloused hand moved up and untied the bathrobe hanging loosely around Isolde's body. As she lowered her gaze, she saw the bulge in his pants, hard, heavy. No doubt Tiffara or one of the other whores had already gotten him worked up before he came here. But since they had to perform later, he came to her earlier than usual.
The robe slid off and dropped to the floor, leaving Isolde standing there naked, water still dripping from her hair down her body.
She thought he'd throw her onto the bed, force her on all fours like he usually did before fucking her rough and fast.
But this time, Severin dragged her in front of the mirror. He made her look at how small she was compared to him.
Isolde barely reached his shoulder. His broad frame loomed behind her like a wall. Her thin, wet body looked pathetic in front of his solid, towering form.
Though she didn't look as terrible as when she first got here, back then, she looked more like a skeleton wrapped in skin than a person.
She'd struggled with eating since she was a teenager. In prison, it was worse. She couldn't eat even if she wanted to. She got harassed constantly and thrown into isolation again and again.
She refused to eat when she arrived in the first few weeks. Who the hell could have an appetite when getting tortured every goddamn day?
She was still underweight. She knew it. So did Severin. He never missed a chance to mock her for it. And Tiffara, that bitch, liked to call her a walking corpse.
Severin's large hand lifted her arm, pointing out where she needed to build muscle.
"To get a body worth fucking properly, you need to eat right," he muttered behind her. His other hand slid along her ribs, ribs that were still too visible, then down to her hip.
"There's a lot that's fucked about you. But for now, I need you to serve." He pushed her down, made her bend over in front of the mirror, then forced her to keep her eyes on her reflection. She wasn't allowed to look away, not even when he slammed into her in one brutal thrust.
Isolde watched her own body move with the rhythm of his thrusts, her gaze locked on the image in the mirror. She stared at Severin's face reflected behind her and watched how his usual cold expression started to crack. His brow furrowed as the muscles in her lower body tightened around him, trapping his cock in the heat of her body.
The last thing Isolde felt was heat, Severin's warm release, and his movements behind her. She frowned as Severin pulled out roughly and dragged her to the bed, a pair of handcuffs dangling from his hand.
Handcuffs again?
Isolde didn't resist when Severin cuffed her to the bed. She watched him step back and slump onto the sofa after securing her. She knew why he was doing this. It was the same reason Nikhael had nearly died.
At first, she wondered why Severin would often cuff her, sit far away, and then fall asleep until morning. It turned out he had trouble sleeping, and somehow, he could only get rest in this room. The handcuffs were "for safety," but it was Liraine's doing that made Severin sleep in the first place. She'd placed candles in the room, their smoke laced with something that made Severin drowsy. No wonder Isolde also kept passing out whenever those candles were lit.
But now? There were no candles. Not since Liraine's betrayal came to light.
So why the hell was Severin doing this again? Cuffing her to the bed, then sitting silently across the room, watching her from that damn sofa?
Isolde wanted to speak and ask, but Severin's look was sharp and cold, daring her to say something. So she shut her mouth and stared up at the ceiling in silence. She could feel his release dripping out of her, soaking into the sheets. What a fucking waste—she'd just spent all that time soaking in warm water, scrubbing the sweat off after training, and now she had to sleep covered in sweat and Severin's cum.
When she finally looked back at him, one of her eyebrows lifted.
Severin... was asleep without the candle.
The question now was, how long could Severin stay asleep in the same room as her without the candle's influence?
When Isolde woke up, Severin was gone. The cuffs were off. She had no idea what time he'd left, only that he'd gone while she was still sleeping. She climbed out of bed and headed straight to the bathroom to clean herself—sweat and Severin's fluids still clinging to her skin.
.
.
.
Nikhael was already waiting outside when she stepped out. As usual, he was assigned to escort her to the underground. She couldn't go there on her own. The painting The Creation of Adam would never open access for her. She wasn't registered as someone with free movement in and out of that place.
As they walked through the corridor, Isolde spotted two men approaching from the opposite direction. The closer they got, the more familiar their faces became, two nearly identical men.
The only difference was in their expressions the moment they saw her.
Maxen smiled widely, clearly happy to see her. On the other hand, Mathias frowned in displeasure, his eyes not on her face but locked onto the scar on her neck.
Maxen moved toward her with open arms, ready to hug her, but Mathias stopped him. He shoved Maxen aside and stepped in front of Isolde, tilting her head with one hand so he could get a better look at the mark.
"Why the hell do you have this scar? Last time I saw you, this wasn't here," Mathias said, his fingers brushing against it.
The stitches were no longer bandaged, but the wound that had nearly killed her hadn't fully healed. Even though the skin had closed, the pain still lingered when pressed.
When Isolde flinched, Mathias's stare only grew sharper. Maxen, who hadn't noticed the scar, now stepped up beside his brother, concern flashing across his face.
"What the hell happened to you while I was gone, Isolde?" Maxen asked. Isolde hadn't even opened her mouth to respond when Nikhael, still standing beside her, shoved both brothers back.
"The Boss is waiting for her in the underground. He won't be happy if she shows up late," Nikhael said flatly. But his words only made the twins even more reluctant to let them pass.
"Underground? What the fuck is she doing down there?" Maxen snapped, his voice suddenly louder, the panic in his face obvious, like that place was the last one Isolde should ever enter.
"Not your business. Move. The Boss is waiting," Nikhael growled, grabbing Isolde's wrist and pulling her with him.
But Maxen grabbed her other wrist, pulling her in the opposite direction, leaving Isolde stuck between the two of them, being dragged from both sides.
Nikhael turned and shot Maxen a sharp glare. "Don't cause a fucking scene, Maxen. You know how terrifying the Boss gets when he's pissed. If you've got something to say to this woman, wait until she's done with him. Your curiosity can wait he can't. And if you keep getting in the way, you might end up putting her life at risk without even realizing it. Because when the Boss gets angry, guess who he takes it out on? Her."
Nikhael's words hit hard. Maxen finally let go of Isolde's wrist, though his eyes didn't soften, still filled with worry. Mathias, on the other hand, looked pissed as hell.
Nikhael pulled Isolde toward the hidden elevator that would take them underground. As the doors closed behind them, Isolde turned to him.
"Why aren't Maxen and Mathias allowed to watch my training with Severin? There are other guards down there, why not them too?"
"Not everyone's allowed into the underground," Nikhael replied without glancing at her. His eyes stayed fixed on the closed elevator doors.
"You saw how the hidden lift opens. That painting The Creation of Adam scans the eyes of anyone trying to go down. Not everyone has access. Only those with clearance are allowed in. And your two late-to-the-party heroes? They've got no business down there. They're Assassins. And Assassins don't belong in the underground. Their job is out there—hunting, killing whatever targets the Boss hands them."
Isolde didn't ask anything else after that. She stayed quiet—she knew Nikhael didn't like it when she talked too much or tried to start a conversation.
…