Veena

4- NEVER SEEN A HELL SO COLD 2

The chains around my wrists clattered as they were unfastened. For a second, I thought I might be able to stand on my own—but the moment they let go, my knees buckled beneath me. I crumpled to the floor, knees hitting the rough, cold stone with a painful thud.

I barely noticed the pain. Everything ached.

Two hands gripped my arms roughly and pulled me to my feet. Or tried to. My legs felt like jelly—trembling, unsure, barely connected to the rest of me. I couldn’t walk. Not on my own. So they dragged me. Two of the huntsmen from earlier, one on each side, gripping my arms as though I was nothing more than a disobedient animal.

We stepped through the heavy double doors of the cell, their groan echoing behind us like a farewell from the dead.

The cell’s scent still clung to me—damp stone, blood, rot, and a sickening metallic sting. The dim lamps lining the corridor offered only the faintest light, their flames flickering against the stone walls like whispers of something long forgotten. Shafts of pale sunlight slanted through the high, box-like windows, but they offered no warmth. No hope.

It had felt like a bubble—my cell. A tight, airless bubble, where time lost its meaning and pain was a constant companion.

My feet dragged. I tried to walk, to match their pace, but I was barely conscious. My body felt distant, like I was floating in a fog. I stumbled, tripping on the edge of a step, and one of the huntsmen grunted in frustration, jerking me upright again.

We climbed a flight of stairs—slowly, painfully—and entered a new hallway. I blinked. It was brighter here, the air less stagnant. And then I felt it: soft pressure beneath my bare feet. Carpet.

My eyes fluttered open, and for a second, all I saw was red.

A red, velvet carpet. Deep and rich, the kind found only in palaces and castles.

That's when I knew.

I was in a castle.

A vampire’s castle.

I cursed inwardly, my mind struggling to process what that meant. The opulence. The control. The cruelty wrapped in elegance. No wonder the vampire from earlier had said not to be silent to "my prince" . And no wonder his clothing had looked so exquisite—those intricate gold patterns, the embroidery, the cloak. He belonged here. This was his domain.

We stopped in front of another set of large, double doors—dark wood, adorned with elaborate carvings. Two guards stood flanking it, silent and still as statues. The lead huntsman stepped forward, opened the door, and the two men beside me dragged me inside.

The room was grand—high ceilings, chandeliers glowing with cold fire, crimson curtains framing tall windows. But I barely saw it. My head hung low, hair falling over my face like a curtain. My neck throbbed where his fangs had pierced me. I felt cold, dizzy, like I was slowly slipping from reality.

"Well," a voice said, rich and smooth. Familiar. Too familiar. "Shall we begin?"

My body tensed involuntarily. That voice chilled me more than the stone walls or the biting wind ever could.

I was pushed down onto my knees, but I didn’t stay upright. I fell forward, crumpling like a discarded doll. I had no control left. No strength. My body felt soaked in ice, numb from within. I could barely hear what was happening around me—voices, movement, all muffled like I was underwater.

"Hold her up," the voice commanded again. Sharper now. Cold.

Hands grabbed me under the arms and lifted me again, forcing me upright. My limbs dangled. My eyes barely opened.

"Move her hair from her face," the voice ordered.

Fingers swept the tangled strands away from my eyes. The moment I saw him, I wanted to shut them again.

It was him.

The vampire from earlier.

Prince Evan.

His dark eyes, his cold presence, his smile that felt like the edge of a blade. I remembered how it had felt—his breath on my neck, his fangs in my skin, the way my body had gone limp, the way my soul felt like it was slipping away.

Terror gripped me again—raw and consuming.

This time, I was sure he wasn’t going to stop.

I didn’t scream. Couldn’t. Even my fear was silent.

He stepped closer, and though my eyes were blurred and half-lidded, I could still see him. Tall, elegant, with that air of cruel nobility. His eyes studied me—not with pity, not even hunger. Curiosity, maybe. Possession.

“Fascinating,” he murmured. “Still breathing.”

I wanted to speak. To beg. But my voice was lost somewhere in the dryness of my throat, buried under the ache in my bones and the fire in my veins.

He leaned in again, just like before.

I tried to turn my head, to flinch away, but there was nowhere to go. My body didn’t respond. All I could do was shiver as his breath brushed over my skin once more.

And just before everything went black, a thought flared in my mind.

This time, he won't stop.