The wounds were a bloody mess, but Cyrus admired the brutality of them. He sat on the edge of the bed in one of the larger rooms of the mansion, one of many Rosali had acquired in the area from lovers with more money than brains, and watched Lydia’s skin slowly begin to heal. Rosali had traced out every single scar on her back, which must have been painful, but the glorious cruelty was forcing Lydia to relive the torture he’d inflicted on her.

Lydia had handled it surprisingly well and he’d struggled not to laugh as Rosali grew more and more frustrated at her lack of response. Rosali pulling out the electric branding iron had concerned him—he didn’t want his pet permanently disfigured—but the intricate rose burned into Lydia’s face was lovely.

Just below her eye in a tribal design, the darkened skin would never heal completely, though it might lighten after she’d fed.

Which was why he hadn’t given her blood yet. Artwork like this was meant to be appreciated for as long as possible. He could still hear her screams. See her struggling against Rosali, desperate to escape the blazing heat.

But Rosali had held her still, keeping the lines of the design nice and clean.

Impressive.

Groaning softly, Lydia turned her head. Her burned cheek touched the pillow and her whole body jerked. She clawed at the sheets, gasping as the agony returned, fresh now that she’d regained consciousness.

“Shh, it’s over.” Cyrus sighed, tearing his gaze from the beautiful damage, cutting a vein on his wrist with a fang and holding the wound to Lydia’s lips. “Next time, perhaps you could refrain from offering yourself up to someone who takes great pleasure in making you suffer?”

Without releasing his wrist, she arched a brow.

He chuckled and smoothed his hand over her hair. “I do not count.”

She huffed, licking the wound closed and easing away from him. The tense lines of pain on her face smoothed away. She rose gingerly, not seeming to care she was naked. “Where are we?”

“A room prepared for me above the theater.”

“It’s not a fucking theater. Just a mansion where rich assholes gather to buy innocent girls.” Lydia’s lips curled with disgust. “I guess paying is the only way any of you can get any.”

Well, she was in a feisty mood. He smiled as he lifted a strand of hair off her cheek. “There are other methods. I’ve never paid for my entertainment. Money doesn’t motivate quite as well as pain.”

Her jaw hardened. “You tried that with me. And failed.”

“I suppose, but I still found a way.” His smile faded as she looked away. “What is it? You seem angry.”

“I’m not.”

“Bullshit.” He framed her jaw with his hand, turning her to face him. “You can’t blame me for letting her hurt you. You did that to yourself.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then what is with the attitude? I’ve helped you heal, fed you, brought you out of her reach so you can recover.” His lips thinned as she stared at him, her expression unreadable. “I won’t coddle you all the time, Lydia. I’m a social creature. It pleases me to have you by my side.”

She nodded slowly. “You wanted to show me off.”

“Naturally.”

“Then I hope my performance met your expectations.”

Her tone was off. For the week after he’d pulled her from her grave she’d been receptive to him, still wary, never forgetting who he was, but leaning into his touch, rather than shying away. Had she simply been giving him what she thought he wanted? No, she couldn’t hide her feelings from him that well.

But being under Rosali’s mercy might have Lydia shutting down to protect herself. Seeing those girls had also had an impact. Reminded her of the life she’d lived. The power she’d once had to save so many from the clutches of men like him.

The old Lydia, the one who’d challenged him as he held her life in his hands, was still in there somewhere.

Which pleased him. He’d enjoy taking that side of her out to play now and then.

But he wouldn’t take Rosali’s sloppy seconds. Lydia would be comfortable with him when he tore down her defenses, leaving her raw and bloody at his feet, struggling to find that defiance she wore so well. She was ready for it now. On guard.

“I will care for you in my own way. I won’t let anyone break you. I won’t let you die.” He brushed his fingers over the brand on her cheek and she winced, though the wound had healed, leaving a deep red scar. “Unless you continue to irritate me. Put away the claws, pet. You should be grateful that I didn’t leave you to suffer longer.”

“Oh, I am grateful. Very.” She bit her bottom lip and lowered her gaze. “Please tell me that girl got away?”

He cocked his head. “Would that please you? She’s a stranger. A stupid child who made foolish choices. Her life means nothing.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Where you’ll always be wrong.” Her voice was soft, so soft he had to lean closer to hear her. “Even if she has no family to go back to, even if no one will miss her, her life is worth something. If she’s free she’ll have another day to see the sun rise. Another day to choose a different path. To grow old, to make a difference, to simply be alive.” She smiled a little. “You’ll never understand what that means. But I believe she does, now more than ever.”

He lowered his hand, not sure what to make of the longing in her voice. Almost as though she wished she could be that girl. A weak creature who could be ended in a moment, crushed like a butterfly in the jaws of a predator, useful only for food no matter how pretty some thought it was.

Lydia’s belief that the girl’s escape mattered at all aggravated him. She couldn’t be this naïve.

The girl lived. Had somehow evaded Rosali’s guards. They would find her eventually, but he wouldn’t have Lydia hanging on to the hope that the girl would have the life she’d imagined. The very idea of such a mundane thing bringing her happiness was pathetic.

“She’s dead.” He touched the scar again and Lydia’s eyes hardened. But she didn’t pull away. She’d managed to steel herself for that eventuality rather quickly. Good girl. He stood and offered his hand. “You may take a shower and dress, but we must return to the party. Rosali is much too pleased with herself and we can’t have that.”

Her brow furrowed as she followed him to the bathroom, holding her arm over her breasts, showing the first sign of uncertainty. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to piss her off? The only reason she hasn’t killed me is because breaking me is more fun. She won’t like seeing that she’s failed.”

“Which will be quite amusing, because there’s not a damn thing she can do about it.”

She ground her teeth. “Easy for you to say.”

“Very.” He smirked as she glared at him. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Not fucking likely.”

Laughing, he shoved her toward the shower. “That’s a shame.”

Her brow rose. “Why?”

“Because, my dear.” He undid his jacket and set it aside. He enjoyed their banter, but they were running out of time. “You don’t have a choice.”