Turik's hand lifted, a sharp command in the air that froze his men in their tracks before they could haul the royals deeper into the darkened underchambers. The torchlight carved jagged shadows across his scarred face as his grin returned—wicked, wolfish, hungry. His eyes locked on Mira, and she felt the weight of his attention like chains tightening around her throat.
He advanced with deliberate leisure, each step of his armored boots striking the stone floor like a drumbeat of doom. When he reached her, he bent low, his gauntleted fingers tilting her chin upward, forcing her to meet his gaze. His thumb grazed the line of her cheek, tracing slowly as though she were not a woman but prey he was deciding how best to devour.
Mira's stomach knotted, revulsion flooding her veins, but she held her expression still. She had watched Helga flare with fury, Reuben spit defiance—and each had earned Turik's cruelty. She would not make the same mistake.
