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The scent of burning flesh fills the room, and I can hear the faint hiss of my skin meeting the flame. The guards remain silent, their eyes averted, but I know they’re watching. They always are.
I hold my hand in the flame until I can’t bear it any longer, then pull it back, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The pain is excruciating, but I stand tall, refusing to show weakness.
Victor steps forward, his cold eyes locking onto mine. “Remember, Diarmuid,” he says softly, “I am the one who commands you.”
Victor watches, his eyes cold and unfeeling. With a deliberate motion, he pulls a whip from his robes and nods to one of the guards. The guard steps forward and roughly rips the back of my shirt open, exposing my skin to the room. I can feel their eyes on me, but I refuse to show any weakness.
The first lash of the whip is like fire across my back. I clamp my hand over my mouth as the whip kisses me again and again, each strike more painful than the last. My hand doesn’t move from my mouth, and I do not cry out, even when the warm trickle of blood runs down my back. Victor is only reopening old scars. This pain is familiar. I’ve endured it before. I’m not Victor’s toy anymore.
Each strike brings back memories of past punishments, but I remain silent, resolute. Victor’s face twists with effort as he strikes me until he’s panting, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Finally, he throws the whip across the room in frustration, and my blood splatters on one of the guards.
Victor steps closer, his eyes boring into mine. For the first time in my life, I see something in his eyes that I never expected—fear.
Victor steps back, his mask of authority slipping slightly. He extinguishes the candle, but the fire within me burns brighter than ever. I roll down my sleeves, covering the fresh burns and the still-bleeding lashes. The pain is a reminder of my resolve, of the strength I’ve found within myself.
As I turn to leave the room, the guards part to let me pass, their eyes averted. I walk out of St. Gertrude’s church with my head held high, every step a mark of defiance against the darkness that seeks to consume me, the pain that threatens to swallow me.
I won’t bend. Not today. Not ever.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Selene
I GENTLY HOLD Niamh's hand, praying that she pulls through. Her skin is so cold, and I can't stop the tremor in my own hands as I clasp hers tighter. "Please, Niamh," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the roar of the helicopter blades above us. "You have to be okay."
The helicopter jerks as it lifts off the ground, the motion jarring me from my thoughts. I glance at the paramedic, who is focused on monitoring Niamh's vitals. The intensity in his eyes is both reassuring and terrifying. I can barely process the noise, the vibrations, the sheer speed at which everything is happening. All I can do is keep holding Niamh's hand and praying.
We finally arrive at the mansion. The moment the helicopter door slides open, chaos erupts. Doctors and nurses swarm us, their voices blending into a cacophony of urgent commands and medical jargon. Security personnel try to keep the area clear, but it feels like we're in the eye of a storm. I’m pulled along, barely able to keep up as they rush Niamh inside.
The security team refuses to leave, insisting on carrying Niamh to the research room. This surprises me. "Why in here?" I ask, worry threading through my voice. This room contains so much important information; letting all the doctors and nurses in seems risky.
"It's the safest room in the house, and Diarmuid's orders," one of the guards replies. His words hit me like a cold wind. Does that mean Diarmuid thinks we’re still in danger? My stomach tightens at the thought.
The security team gently lays Niamh on a bed, and two more guards position themselves at the door, their stances rigid and alert. Only one doctor and one nurse are allowed inside, and I watch as they begin their work, their focus immediately on her chest. My hands are shaking, and when I look down at them, disgust curls deep in my belly at the sight of the blood under my nails. Diarmuid’s blood, still there even after he had dived into the water. He had bled as he carried Niamh to safety.
I stand in a daze, barely aware of my surroundings. The doctor and nurse finally step away from Niamh, and their expressions are calm. "She's stable and very lucky," the doctor says, his voice a soothing balm to my frayed nerves. “Niamh must be a strong swimmer.” A smile breaks through my pain for a brief second.
"She is," I say softly, more to myself than to them. They nod and leave the room, and I sit beside Niamh, holding her hand. The tension in my chest eases slightly, but questions swirl in my mind. Why did Diarmuid think we were in danger? And where is he now?
For now, I push those thoughts away, focusing on the rhythmic rise and fall of Niamh's chest. She's safe, and that’s all that matters. I rest my head on the edge of the bed, exhaustion pulling at me, but I refuse to leave her side.
A maid arrives, and she gently urges me to change out of my blood-stained clothes. I don't want to leave Niamh, but I know she's in good hands, if only for a few minutes.
I finally leave Niamh, my steps heavy with exhaustion. The chaos has quieted down, and the house feels eerily calm. I make my way to the bathroom, my body moving on autopilot. Once inside, I strip off my clothes and step into the shower.
The hot water cascades over me, washing away the grime and blood but not the fear. I lean against the wall, and the tears come, unbidden and uncontrollable. I cry for Niamh, for how close I came to losing her. I cry for the shock of what had happened, the terror that still grips my heart. Every sob feels like a release, yet the weight in my chest doesn't lighten.
And then, Diarmuid. Where is he? Is he safe? The worry gnaws at me, even as the water pounds down. He had been so strong, so determined, but he had been hurt. I replay the scenes over and over, my mind refusing to rest.
After what feels like an eternity, I turn off the shower and dry myself off. My reflection in the mirror shows red-rimmed eyes and a face etched with worry. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself and get dressed. I need to be there for Niamh, and I need to know what’s happening with Diarmuid.
I return to Niamh’s side, the room still and quiet. She’s lying there, breathing steadily. I sit beside her, taking her hand once more. The fear hasn’t gone, but being here with her, I find a small measure of peace. I just have to wait now and hope that Diarmuid comes back soon with good news.
The room is quiet now, a stark contrast to the chaos of earlier.
"Diarmuid will be back soon," I tell myself, the words a fragile anchor in the storm of my thoughts. I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. All I can do now is wait, and hope that when he arrives, he brings some semblance of good news.
I lie on the bed in the research room, gently petting Niamh's hair; I watch her closely. Her eyes blink slowly, weak but alive. Relief floods through me, knowing she’s here, breathing.
