Page 80 of Savage Crown

And then we see him.

The thing hanging from the chains.

Once a dark elf.

Now—a ruined husk.

Flesh flayed open in strips. Skin torn and bruised, an unrecognizable mess of pain and suffering.

Seraphina inhales sharply.

She tries to hide it—tries to mask the way her body tightens, the way her fingers curl into fists.

But I see it.

I always see it.

I step past her, picking up the whip hanging from the stone wall.

Its leather coils are dark with old blood, glistening in the dim torchlight.

I run my fingers over the surface, thoughtful.

"You see," I murmur, my voice a silken whisper, "an information broker like me is an expert in making people talk."

I turn toward her, letting the whip drag against the stone floor, slow, deliberate.

Seraphina’s breath stutters.

Just for a second.

But I hear it.

I feel the way her muscles coil, the way her body reacts to the danger creeping closer.

Good.

She should be afraid.

Because the game we’ve been playing?

It ends tonight.

I lift the whip.

Crack.

It snaps against the air, the sound slicing through the dungeon like a sword meeting flesh.

Seraphina flinches.

Only slightly.

But enough.

Enough for me to see that she is not as unshakable as she pretends to be.

Enough for me to know that she is imagining it against her own skin.

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