AVELINA’S POV
The cellar smells of smoke, old blood and damp stone. It feels like the inside of a wound. The blub flickers as it hands over my head like a small conviction.
I touch my wrist as the rope tightens it’s grip, leaving bruises and tiny maps of pain. I wanted to scream my throat out until it bleeds but i breathed in, counting the sound of my breath. In and Out trying to keep my mind clean.
Orlando arrived like a wound that knew its timing. He padded in with the slow assurance of a man who never feared consequence. He had a drink in one hand and a cruelty that sat too well on his face. He treated me like a particular kind of priceless thing — fragile enough to shatter, valuable enough to barter.
“Avelina.” I hear him call my name. “His face wore a mask of amusement whilst his
