And there, in front of them all, stood Morpheus himself, his expression a mask of smug triumph, settling that gorgeous expression with a merciless cruelty.
His green eyes gleamed beneath the torchlight venomous, illuminating the faint curl of mockery at the edge of his mouth.
Even from a distance, Arabella could feel the sheer weight of his presence, an invisible force pressing against her ribs, suffocating, as though she was going against the very nature of the world.
The air itself seemed to shudder under the gravity of his gaze, as though the flames of the torches bent toward him in unspoken submission and Arabella hated the feel of having to also bow down under his authority.
Isaac, despite the deep bruise spreading like spilled ink across his cheek, lifted his head and squared his shoulders. His voice, though hoarse, carried defiance sharp enough to offend Morpheus who had always been respected.
"I won't tell you where she is."
