Chapter 201

Chapter 201
Citlali's POV

His face was a mess—the three gouges I'd left still bleeding, his nose clearly broken and swollen, already turning purple.

But his eyes... his eyes were satisfied.

Ashford crouched down, his movements stiff and pained, and grabbed a handful of my hair, forcing my head up.

"I hope," he said, his voice thick and nasal from his broken nose, "that next time I visit, you'll have learned some manners."

His breath was hot on my face, reeking of blood and wine. "Remember this, you worthless bastard. No matter what you are—human or wolf—you're still nothing."

"You're still just a piece of property," he hissed. "And property that damages its owner gets broken."

He released my hair, and my head fell back to the floor with a sickening thud that made stars explode behind my eyes.

Ashford stood, his movements unsteady, and delivered one final kick to my ribs.

"Bitch," he spat, literally spat, blood-tinged saliva landing on my face.

Then he turned and limped toward the door, the guards following.

The door slammed shut, and I was alone in the darkness with my pain.

---

I don't know how long I lay there.

Time had stopped meaning anything. There was only pain, endless and all-consuming.

Then the door opened again, and I heard Layla's voice, high and frightened. "Citlali? Citlali!"

She was shoved into the cell, and the door clanged shut behind her.

I heard her footsteps, then a sharp intake of breath as she saw me.

"Citlali!" she screamed, and then she was beside me, her small hands hovering over my body, not knowing where to touch, what to do. "No, no, no..."

"Help!" she screamed toward the door, her voice breaking. "Someone help! Please! She's dying! Please!"

But there was only silence from the corridor.

No one came. No one cared.

Layla was crying, her tears falling on my face as she knelt beside me in the spreading pool of blood.

"Don't die," she sobbed, her small hands trying to find somewhere to touch me that wouldn't cause more pain. "Please don't die, please..."

She tried to lift me, but I was too heavy, and every movement sent fresh agony through my broken body.

She gave up and just held my hand instead, squeezing it desperately.

She tore strips from the filthy sheet with shaking hands, her own fingers bleeding from the effort.

She tried to stop the bleeding, but there were too many wounds, too much blood.

The water in our cup turned red almost immediately when she tried to clean my face.

"Citlali," she whispered, her voice thick with tears. "Please... please say something..."

I managed to open my one good eye, just a crack. "Layla..." The word came out as barely more than a breath.

"Don't talk!" she said frantically. "Save your strength! You're going to be okay! You have to be okay!"

But we both knew she was lying.

Layla held me through the long night, her small body curled around mine, trying to keep me warm as I shivered uncontrollably.

"Don't die," she kept whispering, over and over like a prayer. "Please don't die..."

"If you die, what will I do?" Her voice broke. "I can't stay here alone... I can't..."

I wanted to comfort her, wanted to tell her it would be okay, but I couldn't speak anymore.

The silver in my system was preventing any healing. The wounds weren't closing—they were getting worse, infection already setting in.

I could feel my body shutting down, piece by piece.

My breathing grew shallower, more labored. Each breath was a battle I was losing.

My consciousness drifted, and I found myself thinking of Rowan.

Was he still alive? Would I ever see him again?

Aldric, Dorian, Lysander, Branimir... all their faces swam through my fading mind.

I'd never see any of them again.

I'd die here, in this cell, broken and defeated.

I was so tired. So tired of fighting, of hurting, of surviving.

Maybe it would be easier to just... let go.

The darkness was pulling me down, and I was too weak to resist.

Layla's sobs were growing distant, fading like echoes.

The pain was fading too, replaced by a cold numbness that spread through my limbs.

I'm sorry, I thought, to Layla, to Rowan, to everyone I was leaving behind.

I'm so sorry.

And then there was nothing but darkness.

Citlali

I woke to pain.

Not the sharp, screaming kind that makes you thrash and fight—I was too broken for that. This was deeper, duller, the kind of pain that settled into your bones and whispered that your body had been pushed past its limits and might never recover. Every breath felt like swallowing broken glass, each shallow inhale sending fresh waves of agony through my shattered ribs.

I was alive. That itself felt like a miracle, though I wasn't entirely sure it was a blessing.

Nothing worked properly anymore. My right arm hung useless at my side—dislocated or broken, I couldn't tell which, only that I couldn't move it at all. My left eye was swollen completely shut, the skin around it hot and tight. When I tried to shift position, my body simply refused to cooperate, muscles trembling uselessly against the cold stone floor.

Layla was curled against me, her small body pressed close, her face streaked with dried tears. She'd cried herself to sleep, I realized, one hand still clutching mine with desperate strength even in unconsciousness. Her cheeks were wet, fresh tears still leaking from beneath her closed eyelids.

I tried to move, to ease into a less agonizing position, but my body betrayed me. The moment I attempted to shift my weight, white-hot pain exploded through my chest, stealing my breath and making black spots dance across my vision.

If Ashford comes back tonight, I thought with cold, clear certainty, I'm going to die.

Not "might die." Not "could die." Will die.

There was no fight left in me. No strength to resist. My body had been beaten past the point of recovery, the silver in my system preventing any healing, infection already setting in around the deeper wounds. If that man walked through the door again, if he decided to finish what he'd started, I wouldn't be able to stop him.

The day crawled by with agonizing slowness. At some point—I'd lost all sense of time—the door opened and the girl who brought our meals appeared. She took one look at me and her face went white, her eyes widening in horror before she quickly looked away.

For just a moment, I saw something flicker across her expression. Sympathy, maybe. Pity. But it was gone almost immediately, replaced by fear. She set down the wooden bowl with shaking hands, her movements jerky and rushed, and practically fled without meeting my eyes again.

I couldn't blame her. I must have looked like a corpse that hadn't realized it was dead yet.