The witch is relentless. She uses those sharp metal nails to inflict precise, agonizing wounds that Elena cannot heal from because of the binding magic placed on her. It feels like a thousand cuts across her body, and the torment goes on for hours.
At one point, the witch leans in close, her breath cold against Elena’s ear. “He feels this, you know. Every tremor. Every spike of fear. Every moment you break… he breaks.”
Elena’s stomach rolls.
She tries to push back through the bond — to send Ryker anything, even a flicker of reassurance — but the magic binding her clamps down, suffocating the attempt.
The witch laughs softly. “Oh, sweetheart. You won’t be reaching him today.”
Time drags.
Her body aches from the restraints. Her mind feels stretched thin. The bond pulses weakly, like a
