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“No,” de Bourgh replied. “Remove that, too.”

With some sort of giant scissors, James Baker cut her bra, and it fell on the floor.

A shiver ran through Amber. Would she lose her breasts now?

“Flog her,” de Bourgh said.

Flogging…

Fuck.

If she didn’t bleed to death from that, an infection would kill her. She wished she knew something about the Bruce to trade for her life.

With a sinking stomach, Amber watched James Baker go to the wall of torture tools and take a whip off it. It was like a snake attached to a big stick. Amber’s whole body shook, her breath coming in and out in shudders. She locked her eyes with James Baker as he walked to stand behind her wearing that same sad expression.

“You will pay for this,” she said. “I don’t know how. I don’t know when. But you will.”

Somehow, she knew that if she survived this, Owen wouldn’t let this go. He was no one to her, and she was no one to him, but something told her he wouldn’t take this lightly.

“We’ll see. Begin,” de Bourgh said.

A crack echoed in the air behind her, and red-hot pain scorched her bare back. She grunted and sank from the impact. But before she could recover and take a breath, another lash tore her apart. This time, she couldn’t stop a scream.

Blows rained down on her, one after another, and soon, the only thing that existed was world-shattering pain.

Chapter 8

The door to the dungeon screeched and clunked somewhere in the darkness. Owen jumped to his feet and leaned on the iron bars. A torch lit the hall, then another. Heavy feet pounded against the stone floor as the two lights approached. The dungeon’s other inhabitant fussed in his cell by the exit.

“Food. Water, please,” he begged.

Owen’s stomach rumbled, too. His lips were parched, and his head ached. He hadn’t had a drop to drink in he didn’t know how long. He didn’t know what time of day it was now. Mayhap it was tomorrow? Mayhap they were still in the same endless day.

His main concern was Amber. His stomach had dropped and the calm and peaceful demeanor had disappeared when they’d taken her, and every moment she was away was agony.

What was de Bourgh doing to her? If he touched one hair on her head, Owen would make him wish he were never born.

He peered into the darkness until his eyes hurt, but he couldn’t make anything out beyond the light of the two torches against the blackness.

“Amber?” he said. “Is that ye?”

“Shut up,” came a male response.

Owen gripped the iron bars until his fingertips were numb. Finally, they were close enough that he could see a man marching with two torches and behind him—

Icy fingers gripped Owen’s core.

Two men carried Amber’s limp body.

“Amber!” Owen called.

She didn’t move. Some sort of a cloak covered her shoulders.

“She can’t hear you.” The man with the torches opened the door to the cell.

They carried her inside, her feet dragging over the ground. They placed her on her belly on the bench attached to the wall in the darkest corner of the cell.

“Don’t turn her on her back.” The guard gave one torch to Owen.