Chapter 97 — Marked in Fire

Chapter 97 — Marked in Fire
Amara

His screams make my blood boil, the rage breaking my mask away chip by chip as I watch Thomas suffer.

“Killain, stop!”

My voice comes out louder than I expect, slicing through the noise. He doesn’t stop. He just laughs—low, dark, almost delighted—as he presses the blade deeper.

“You will break pretty for me, little one,” he taunts over the sound of Thomas’s pain.

Something inside me tears loose. The last thread of restraint snaps, the mask I’ve held together with obedience and lies finally shattering.

“I already broke pretty for Liam. You’re nothing compared to that.”

He freezes mid-stroke. The knife stills, trembling in his grip. The air turns heavy, suffocating. I can feel the fury build in him—the disbelief, the insult, the jealousy. Thomas’s eyes shoot open at my words, panic flashing through them, a plea for me to stop. But I don’t.

I drag my gaze up to Killain, refusing to look away. The knife clinks to the ground as he rises. His eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them, the kind of darkness that eats everything around it. The air itself feels like it’s trying to crawl out of the room.

“What did you say, little one?”

“You heard me.”

His voice drops low, dangerous. “You knew who the warden was this whole time, didn’t you?”

His face is unreadable, a mask of its own—but I can see the crack forming at the corner of his mouth, the twitch of rage he can’t contain.

“I knew when he took my mouth,” I snap back, the words spilling like venom. “Screamed it later.”

I don’t care that he’s angry. I don’t care that Thomas is watching, terrified. All that matters is that the attention has shifted—from the blade to me.

He lunges, gripping a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back until my neck protests. His breath scorches the side of my face as his eyes burn into mine.

“You better be joking, little one.”

His voice shakes—not with fear, but with something worse. Doubt.

I smile through the pain. “Why? Are you afraid that when you left me there, I might have found something better?”

His composure snaps like glass. The calm vanishes, replaced by a snarl. He drags me out by my hair, the door hissing shut behind us. My scalp screams with every step, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of a sound.

He hauls me through the corridor, past guards who stare but don’t move. The walls blur as we twist down turn after turn, deeper into his lair. I try to twist free, to throw my weight off balance, but his grip only tightens. When we reach the bedroom, he throws me forward.

I hit the floor hard.

Pain flashes up my spine, but I’m already scrambling to my feet. I land a kick to his side and sprint toward the vanity—where the hidden knife waits—but I don’t make it. He grabs me by the legs and yanks me backward, dragging me across the marble.

“Where do you think you’re going, little one?”

I twist, kick again—harder. My heel catches his jaw. He grunts, and I kick again, the sound of bone meeting flesh echoing in the room. The third kick doesn’t land—he catches my ankle midair. Metal glints, and before I can twist free, a cuff snaps around it.

“Let go of me!”

He doesn’t. The second cuff clicks onto my other ankle. I sit up fast, swinging, fists wild, landing one, maybe two hits before he catches my wrists and slams them into the floor.

“You want a fight, little one? Fine—you’ve got one.”

He pins me there, breath heavy, rage burning through his composure. The next set of cuffs bites into my wrists, the chain rattling as he fastens them to the hooks embedded in the floor.

“Let me go, you son of a bitch!”

He steps back, his voice suddenly calm—too calm. “After tonight, you’ll never forget who owns you. When we marry, this won’t be the final brand—it’ll be the first.”

I twist against the metal, wrists straining until my skin burns. He crosses to the fireplace. I can’t see what he’s doing, only the sound—the soft hiss of iron meeting flame, the low crackle that promises something worse than pain.

He returns slowly, something hidden behind his back. The heat radiates off him in waves.

“Every breath you take, little one, is a gift I allow,” he says, voice low and venomous. “And it would be just as easy to take it away.”

I laugh—a sound that doesn’t even feel like mine. “You’ll have to be alive to do that.”

He smiles, cruel and cold. “There will never again be a mistake about who you belong to.”

The air thickens. The sound of the fire fills the silence between us.

He steps close. I can smell the iron.

Then—heat.

The rod presses into my skin just below the curve of my breast. For one second there’s only pressure—then pain detonates through my body like a scream set on fire.

I hear the hiss, the sizzle, the smell of burning flesh that doesn’t register as mine. My throat tears open on a sound I can’t hold back.

I scream until the world fades to static, until the room dissolves, until the only thing left in me is rage and smoke.

And then—nothing.

Black.