Page 27 of The Curse of Ophelia

I shook my matted black hair from my eyes as I threw my head back, authority I didn’t truly have demanding that his gaze meet mine. I shouldn’t goad the guard. He held the ears of my captors closely and acted with their orders. But if this was my fate, I would not be entirely submissive.

A cruel smile curled the guard’s lips. The whip whistled through the air a third time. I didn’t flinch—didn’t blink—when it landed.

“Would you like more, Warrior Prince?” They liked to mock me with reminders of who I was destined to be, but the harsh words didn’t sting. The one they called Warrior Prince—a false title, for Mystiques had no princes—no longer existed. Not as he had before.

I held his black gaze to mine, unrelenting. “Do your worst,” I growled.

Today of all days, my body was filled with restless energy. I couldn’t fight the baiting words that came to my lips, expelling a sliver of that wild heat growing inside of me. Anger at what I missed.

The man on the dais nodded at the inflictor, whose hands reached for the cold steel sword at his belt. It slid out of its sheath, shining against his leather armor. He flexed his hands around the hilt, muscles tensing, savoring the moment that my eyes locked on the blade before he struck.

Maybe this will be the final blow, I thought, hopeful at first. But as he raised the sword a pair of magenta eyes swam into my vision, and fear sank low in my stomach. The fear of never seeing those eyes before mine again. The fear of never running my hands along her warm, tanned skin or through her golden hair.

The memory of jasmine and honeysuckle made my knees go weak with terror, and I stumbled. The cuff chaining me to the wall—the only thing keeping me upright besides my own fortitude—dug into my skin, a new line of blood trailing down my arm.

My eyes followed the sword, but I thought of her, swearing to the Angels that if this was the end, she would be my last memory. The blade rose high before me. It was a streak of lightning against the night, slicing through the air with devilish intent and precision. In one powerful swipe, he cut through the skin and muscle stretched across the right side of my rib cage. It cut deep enough to leave a scar, but not so deep as to cause permanent damage.The guards were calculating where they struck, not wanting to anger their boss.

I panted as the metal slid against my skin.

I crumpled to the blade, but righted myself quickly, ignoring the growing puddle of blood obscuring the stone floor. It was sticky and warm beneath my bare feet, and I felt the loss radiating through my skull.

My captor smirked as if he had tasted something sweet. “You’re lucky he only ordered three lashes today.” His voice rang through the chamber as he jumped off his platform and landed before me. In my contorted state, he seemed bigger than me, but if I stood to my full height, I would have defeated him. A chance I’d never have.

He continued, voice cold and face just inches from mine, “If I had my way, you’d have been dead long ago, Warrior Prince.” His eyes trailed over my body. When they flashed back to my face, an unsettling spark flared in their dark depths. He smiled hungrily. “Hold him down. I have one more enhancement I’d like to make.”

There was a sharp click, and a blade shot into his hand. The inflictor sheathed his sword and rammed my shoulders against the wall, holding me still. The first guard prowled forward. “Your tattoo,” he purred. “It’s quite…sentimental, is it not?”

I squirmed beneath the inflictor’s hands, the wound in my side throbbing and the slices in my back stinging against the wall. “Don’t fucking touch it!” I growled, but that erratic energy was the reaction he wanted.

“Oh, no…I would never,” he purred. “I’m simply making an improvement.”

My eyes widened in horror as he raised the delicate blade. The tip pressed into the flesh on the right side of my chest below my collarbone, opposite the Bind.

“Get off of me,” I panted, a soft bubble of red beading with the first prick.My vision was clouding from blood loss.

“Hold still, or we’ll have to start over.” His words were a cruel promise, and I knew from experience that he meant it. If I moved, he would allow the wound to heal and then begin again.

I wrenched my head upward and bit down on the scream that rose up my throat when the tip of the blade tore slowly through my flesh. He carved my chest for agonizing minutes, the hungry look never leaving his damned face. I did not cry out as the sharp point sliced along my muscle and skin, leaving his personal mark on me.

When he stepped back, he smiled. “Now you have been marked with our constellation, as well. Since you seem to have an affinity for stars.”

I wanted to vomit at his feet. Their precious constellation, forever etched into my skin. The wounds would heal, but the scars would be a permanent reminder of who inflicted them. Marked me as a representation of their Angel-damned selves.

“Release his chains. Return him to his cell,” he barked, taking a step back. His pale skin glowed in the moonlight from the one small window cut high into the stone. “We’ll continue next time, Warrior Prince. Sleep well.”

I glared at his retreating figure, swearing to the revenge I may never get to enact, until the gate closed behind him.

My chains slackened, and I fell to my knees in exhaustion. Defeat swarmed me as the inflictor returned my blindfold. My goading was met in this session, and though I brought it upon myself, I felt drained as we left the iron-scented room behind.

My cell was nearly identical to the bloodstained chamber, but instead of chains and a dais, there was a cot in one corner and a bucket in the other. The only entrance was a heavy iron door with a small window cut into it through which one of my four guards passed food daily. It remained locked at all hours; they didn’t realize that I wouldn’t try to escape. I couldn’t. I heard them whispering about it sometimes. Speculating how I, the destined future of the Mystique Warriors, had come to this fate. How they had been so lucky to easily capture me and why I had not once attempted escape.

It seemed none of them were privy to the truth.

An ache started to creep along my muscles, beginning in my shoulders and spreading slowly down my back and arms. That fucking spot on my chest that I couldn’t bear to look at was the most prominent. Light licks of fire crept into the flesh, muscle, and bone. The sting was subtle, my body healing as quickly as the sparks ignited. Ice tangled with the flames until it filled the space, sealing over what had been ripped apart.

I touched my hand to the spot on my ribs where the sword had sliced me. It stung when my fingers grazed the open flesh, but they came away clean. The blood had already clotted, leaving a shallow gouge in its place, exposing pink muscle. As I watched, the muscle became less tender. The blood on my skin dried and crusted, but it gave me little comfort.

Stumbling to the musky cot, I turned my head up toward the room’s lone window. Three feet above me, its bars framed the rising moon and the sea of glimmering stars surrounding it. The iridescence broke the bleakness of the night. The moon appeared closer than usual, the sight planting a seed of something warm inside me—hope.

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