Lyra’s POV
The stone floor beneath me was cold, biting into my skin through the thin fabric I’d been left with.
Every movement of the chain wrapped around my ankles sent a prickling pain up my legs.
A shuffle of footsteps came from outside the door, followed by the click of the heavy lock turning.
My stomach twisted. As much as I hated it, I knew what was coming—what had to be coming.
Food, if I could call it that, tossed into my cell like scraps for a stray dog.
I’d learned the rhythm of her visits, the way she purposely made them late, prolonging the gnawing hunger that had become a permanent ache in my body. Not that I’d ever give her the satisfaction of seeing my pain.
Zara stepped in, her familiar scent laced with a sickly perfume that clung to her.
She sauntered over, ca
