The stench hit me anew as Marquess Lucian Fairchild entered my prison, his polished boots clicking against the stone floor. I curled myself tighter in the corner, trying to appear small and broken. In truth, I was—broken in body from weeks of captivity, starved and weakened—but my mind refused to surrender.
"Good evening, Isabella," Lucian said, his voice eerily gentle as he set down his lantern. "I thought we might have a little chat before my evening engagements."
I didn't respond. Sometimes silence was the best defense against his twisted games.
He circled my small cell like a predator, pausing to glance at the wooden trunk that held Lila's decomposing body. The smell had been unbearable at first, but now it was just another horror I'd grown accustomed to.
"Not feeling conversational tonight?" He clicked his tongue. "Pity. I do enjoy our little talks."
I raised my eyes to meet his, careful not to show defiance. "What would you like to talk about, my lord?"
