Lucas stared at his father’s still body, bile rising in his throat. The smell of burnt flesh clung to the air, thick and greasy, until he could taste it. His stomach twisted violently. Marcus lay face-down, shirt half-melted into his skin, angry red burns spread across his chest, back and arms. His chest rose and fell in slow stubborn breaths.
Still alive. Still dangerous.
Ophelia’s hand flew to her mouth. “What did I do?” she whispered, voice barely holding together. He’s going to kill me. He’s going to kill me.”
Lucas dragged his gaze to Celia. Her body hung limp from the chains, head bowed, blood trailing down her stomach in steady lines. The carved word over her breast was still oozing, and the skin around the burns looked swollen and angry. Her breathing was shallow, barely there.
