Page 107 of The Final Contract
No.
I dig in, twisting, and slam both feet against the wall with all the strength I can gather. The force rockets me backward, my skull connecting with Cormac’s nose in a sickening crunch.
His roar splits the air as his grip releases, blood spraying down his lips. I hit the ground hard, scrambling, wrists clumsy in their bonds, chest heaving.
But I’m not fast enough.
Before I can rise, his hand fists in my hair again, vicious.
“You little cunt,” he spits, his words thick with blood and hate.
Then he hurls me forward—without care, without pause, without a shred of mercy.
I tumble, body slamming against unyielding stone, the world spinning as I crash down the dark staircase into nothing.
The world tilts sideways as I slam into the stone landing. Air punches out of my lungs, ribs screaming with the impact. My shoulder takes the brunt, white-hot pain flashing through me, and I roll, only to crash into the next set of steps. Each jagged edge batters bone until I sprawl at the bottom, a heap of broken breath and throbbing limbs.
The room spins. My vision splits, then fuses again. The copper taste of blood blooms across my tongue, thick and cloying. I try to push up, but my elbow buckles beneath me, useless. My body feels like a marionette with its strings cut, limp and unsteady.
And then?—
Boot steps. Slow. Unhurried.
Cormac strolls down the stairwell like he’s coming for Sunday supper, not walking into the ashes of a tomb, not dragging me into hell. The harsh shadows hide the sharp angles of his face, his smile carved cruel and thin.
Several of his men trail behind, shadows hulking, weapons glinting. At the top, he jerks his chin without looking back.
“Keep watch up there. If any Ledger dogs come sniffin’, don’t let ’em past.”
Their footsteps fade, leaving me with this devil and the monsters at his side.
I try to scramble back, nails scraping over the gritty stone, but one of the men hauls me up like I weigh nothing. My body jerks, protesting every tug and drag as they force me forward.
The air down here is damp, colder, carrying the smell of mildew and rot. The underbelly of the church.
And then I see it.
The pyre.
A lattice of wood stacked high, blackened already at the edges like it’s been tested, waiting. In the center, a thick beam rises, jagged and cruel, prepared for a body to be lashed against it. My stomach heaves. My heart jackhammers.
“No.” The word mumbles through the gag, raw and broken. I thrash, kicking, clawing—anything—but it’s useless against their grip. One of them slams a fist into my gut and the air rips out of me again.
Cormac laughs, low and mean.
“Don’t waste your breath, love. You’ll need it for screamin’.”
I twist harder, panic clawing up my throat. My wrists burn where they tied them, using the rope to drag me closer, closer. My mind races—Killian, is he alive? Did he make it out? He has to. He has to.
But Cormac leans down, his face close enough I can smell the whiskey and cigarettes on his breath.
“You know what I like best, Seraphina? Poetic endings. Even if my brother does come for you, he’ll never make it to you in time. Not before the fire takes you.”
My protesting scream rips through the stone belly of the church as they shove me forward?—
—straight against the thick beam waiting for me.
Rough hands wrench my arms back, the coarse bite of rope grinding into raw skin. They bind me tight to the beam, my shoulders pressed hard against the splintered wood until I can feel every jag digging into bone. Each pull of the rope squeezes the air out of me a little more, cinching me down, making me part of the pyre.
