I woke to the taste of iron and the weight of chains.
My wrists burned where the metal bit into flesh, my arms stretched above my head in a position that sent fire shooting through my shoulders.
Sweat dripped down my face, my back, pooling at the base of my spine where my shirt had ridden up against the rough stone wall. Every muscle in my body screamed in protest, cramped from hours—days?—of hanging like meat in a butcher's shop.
The room swam in and out of focus as I tried to orient myself. Stone walls. No windows. The air thick with the smell of damp earth and something else.
Fear, maybe. My own fear, soaked into the very stones.
Where was I?
The last thing I remembered was Alpha Theon's face, the way his eyes had widened when I told him Malachi was dead. Then darkness, swift and final.
The door opened with a creak that seemed to echo in the small space, and two men entered.
