Celine had heard the commotion going on upstairs; the gentle thuds of books being tossed around. But she couldn’t cry out, couldn’t scream that she’s here, to please help her. Solomon had come to visit her late this afternoon, and having spent several hours using her as a punching bag, he had forced her to drink one of his ‘Cocktails’ of silver and wolfsbane, silver to burn and wolfsbane to stop her from healing.
The thick liquid had burned her mouth and throat, her tears had fallen freely as soon as he had left her alone. Her left eye is nearly swollen shut, and her ribs ached but didn’t seem broken, she’d know, he’d broken them enough times over the years. She can tell her nose is bleeding gently from the warmth of the blood on her face as it ran towards her mouth. But she doesn’t wipe
