MALAKAI’S POV

My grip on her arm was tight, tight enough to bruise, but I didn't care. I dragged Clarabel through the hallways of the keep.

She didn't fight my grip, nor did she stumble. She kept her chin tilted up, walking with her spine rigid, practically marching toward my private quarters. She was covered in fresh, wet blood. It dripped off her fingertips and soaked the dark linen of her dress.

My chest burned with a rage so thick I could barely draw air into my lungs. It wasn't because a mercenary had died—men died in my dungeons every week. It was because she had done it. She had...