Clay POV
The cold, damp stone of the cell pressed against my skin as the metallic clang of the cell door echoed in the dimly lit chamber. A strange, bitter liquid, the same I'd used on others, pulsed through my veins – a chilling, familiar burn.
The hunter's sneering face, inches from mine, was a mask of disgust; his breath, hot and rancid, washed over me. "Traitor," he spat.
My retort – "You should look in a mirror" – was a hiss laced with icy fury.
The heavy lock's grating mechanism screamed as it engaged; his laughter, a cruel, triumphant sound, followed. New footsteps approached – the rhythmic thud of boots on stone – and a voice, grating and irritating, cut through the silence.
"It's not too late, Clay," Liz hissed, her voice a chilling whisper that slithered through the cel
