Lucas held his wrists still as he chewed at the inside of his cheek, eyes adjusting to the dim, stagnant room. The only light seeped through the small barred window on the door, a thin strip of gray that barely reached the floor. Moisture clung to the walls. The air smelled of mildew, rust, and old fear. Somewhere in the distance, a steady drip marked the seconds, patient and cruel.
He had been in these dungeons plenty of times, always as a guard or an observer. Never as prey.
The silver shackles bit into his wrists, angry red burns wrapping them like molten manacles. Marcus had insisted on them. Lucas had fought at first, driven by instinct and panic, but he eventually forced himself still. Every movement tore at blistered skin.
He needed to think. He needed a plan. But every breath sc
