Gabriel de la Cruz was bound to an iron chair in the middle of the room. The aristocratic face that had looked so insufferably arrogant yesterday was now covered in dark bruises and dried blood. His fine silk tie was shredded, and his eyes radiated pure, unadulterated terror as he stared at the figures standing around him.
I sat on a black leather sofa placed directly opposite Gabriel. I had cleaned my face, combed through my hair, and replaced my ruined, dirty clothes with a sleeveless black satin dress that clung smoothly to my silhouette.
To my left, Victor Vance stood leaning his broad frame against a heavy wooden table. His left hand held a glass of whiskey, while his storm-grey eyes locked onto me with an intensity that grew increasingly demanding by the second. To my right, Kaelen
