Page 33 of The Curse of Blood and Silenc

I forced myself to stand. The room swayed, but I locked my knees. “Balthazar, no. Please. Not Steve.” My voice cracked on his name.

Balthazar’s sweet, deadly smile spread across his face. “You think I’m going to torture your little friend?” He tilted his head,studying me with predatory interest. “More importantly, does Angelo know how you feel about him?”

I stepped in front of Steve, ignoring how the movement made the room spin. “Yes, damn it. Don’t hurt him.” My voice was raw, desperate. I couldn’t watch Steve suffer like Shannon had. Not after everything we’d been through.

Balthazar’s hand found my cheek, his palm still wet and sticky with Shannon’s blood. The touch was gentle, almost loving, and all the more terrible for it.

“Tsk, tsk. Angelo would be most disappointed.” Petar smirked as if he’d just discovered a secret weapon.

Something snapped inside me. The room stopped spinning as rage topped exhaustion. I whirled around, putting every ounce of hatred into the slap that I cracked across his face. “Shut up, just shut up, you bastard.”

His hand clamped around my wrist like an iron shackle, twisting my arm behind my back with savage force. Raw fury was in his voice. “Don’t ever touch me, bitch.” His breath was hot in my ear, his voice trembling with rage and—was that fear? “I’m your future king.”

King? The idea was so absurd it almost made me laugh despite my pain. This pathetic creature who could only feel powerful by hurting someone already weakened? Who had to announce his own importance to everyone?

I turned around, not able to take my eyes off Steve. He stood motionless, his vacant eyes fixed on nothing. Whatever they’d done to him was worse than any physical torture. They’d removed everything that made him Steve, and I had a sickening feeling I knew exactly why Balthazar had brought him here.

Shannon pressed against my legs like a cornered animal, her terror a stark contrast to Steve’s emptiness. Her fingers clutched at my jeans, silently begging for protection I wasn’t sure I could give.

I wasn’t just meant to heal bodies anymore. I was to heal minds.

“Steve?” My voice stumbled over his name. I searched his face for any sign of the protector who’d taught me to throw a proper punch in a grimy alley behind Freaky Freddie’s favorite club and who’d shown me how to break holds just like the one Petar had me in now.

“You’re my second little sister,” he’d always say, ruffling my hair affectionately after I managed to land a hit during practice. “Ain’t nobody gonna mess with you when I’m done teaching you.” He’d worn his past like armor—ex-gang member turned guardian, street-smart and loyal to the bone. No one could lay a hand on me when he was around. He’d made sure of that.

Today, Steve didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared straight ahead like a mannequin in a shop window.

That’s when I put my finger on what was wrong with his eyes. The familiar blue—the color of summer skies, he’d once joked—was gone. In its place was nothing but darkness, black as tar pits, infinite as a starless night. Whatever looked out through those eyes wasn’t Steve anymore.

“You’ve got ten seconds to let her go, Dragan—starting now. Ten.” Balthazar’s voice cut through the room like a blade.

Petar’s grip on my wrist tightened.

“Nine.” Balthazar stepped closer, his shoes leaving bloody footprints on the floor. “Eight.”

Petar’s breath caught.

“Seven.” A meditative smile spread across Balthazar’s face. “Six. I wonder if your blood tastes as bitter as your ambitions, little king.”

“Five.” He was close enough now that I could smell Shannon’s blood on him. “Four.”

Petar’s hands began to tremble.

“Three.” Balthazar’s fangs gleamed. “Two?—”

Petar shoved me away so hard Shannon lost her grip on my legs and I stumbled into Steve. His body felt rigid and cold. It was like running into a statue.

The Steve I knew would have caught me, steadied me, cracked a joke about my clumsiness. This Steve just stood there, those horrible black eyes staring into nothingness while I regained my footing.

My throat tightened. What had they done to him? And could I bring him back?

Balthazar pulled me next to him, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Are you all right?” His voice held the same tender concern he’d had before torturing Shannon.

“I’m fine.” The lie tasted bitter on my tongue. My arm throbbed where Petar had twisted it, and I could already feel the bruises blooming on my skin.

“Let me see,” Balthazar murmured quietly, as if soothing a frightened animal. He pushed up my sleeve with careful reverence, nothing like the brutality he’d shown Shannon.

Ugly red marks wrapped around my arm like serpents; Petar’s fingers were mapped out in angry crimson. Balthazar ran his palm over the wounds, leaving trails of Shannon’s drying blood on my skin. Tingling warmth flooded over my skin and spread through my veins. The welts faded, the pain dissolved—and Shannon’s blood was left smeared across my arm like a macabre bracelet.

---