Chapter 200

Chapter 200
Citlali

The thought of Balric on his knees before me, the thought of finally making him suffer...

But I knew this was a trap. Knew that if I accepted, if I showed weakness, Ashford would own me completely.

"I don't need your help," I said, forcing the words past the tightness in my throat.

Ashford's smile froze slightly. "Are you certain? This is a rare opportunity. Think about it—revenge, served exactly as you want it."

"Imagine him kneeling before you," he pressed. "Imagine making him apologize for every scar on your back, every night you spent hungry and afraid."

His voice grew more insistent. "You could have justice, Citlali. Real justice. All you have to do is be reasonable."

When I didn't respond, when I just stared at him with cold defiance, Ashford's expression began to change.

The false gentleness drained away, replaced by something harder, colder.

"Don't be foolish, girl," he said, his voice losing its pleasant veneer. "You think you have a choice here? You think you're still that defiant little brat who could talk back?"

He stood, and suddenly he seemed much larger, much more threatening. "Every woman in this place learns to obey eventually. Every single one."

He moved toward me, step by deliberate step. "You can choose to cooperate and make this pleasant for both of us."

"Or you can resist," he continued, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper, "and be beaten into submission. Either way, the result is the same."

He stopped inches from me, and I could see the cruelty in his eyes, the anticipation. "And I must admit," he said, smile returning but twisted now, vicious, "I'm rather looking forward to seeing that proud little bastard from my territory on her knees before me."

"Begging," he added. "Just like you should have learned to do years ago."

"I'd rather die," I said, the words coming out steady despite the fear coursing through me.

Ashford's smile turned cruel. "That's not your decision to make."

He lunged forward suddenly, faster than his appearance suggested he could move.

I tried to dodge, but the manacles slowed me, and his hands caught my shoulders, slamming me back against the wall.

Even weakened by silver, I was still stronger than a normal human. My knee came up hard, driving into his stomach.

Ashford grunted, his grip loosening, and I twisted away from him.

He grabbed for my wrist, and we struggled, our bodies crashing against the wall.

I was fighting for my life now, fighting with everything I had left despite the weakness, despite the pain.

My fingernails raked across his face, and I felt them dig deep, tearing through skin.

Ashford screamed, his hands flying to his face, and I saw three deep gouges welling with blood from his forehead down to his jaw.

He staggered back, and I didn't hesitate.

I drove my fist into his nose with all the strength I could muster.

The sound of breaking cartilage was sickeningly satisfying, and blood exploded from his nostrils, spraying across his expensive coat.

Ashford stumbled backward, hands clutching his ruined nose, his eyes wide with shock and pain.

"You bitch!" he howled, the words muffled by the blood pouring down his face.

I didn't stop. Couldn't stop. My foot lashed out, catching him squarely between the legs.

Ashford's scream was high and agonized as he collapsed to the floor, curling into a fetal position.

I ran for the door, my hands fumbling with the handle, pulling desperately.

But it was locked. Of course it was locked.

I yanked at it again and again, the metal rattling but not opening, my breath coming in panicked gasps.

"Guards!" Ashford's voice was a strangled roar from behind me. "Get in here! Now!"

The door burst open, nearly knocking me backward, and three guards rushed in.

They took in the scene—Ashford on the floor, blood streaming from his face and nose, curled around himself in agony—and their expressions hardened.

They came at me, and I fought.

I kicked the first one in the knee, and he went down with a cry.

But the other two grabbed my arms, their grips like iron, and they slammed me face-first onto the stone floor.

The impact drove the air from my lungs, and I felt my cheek scrape against the cold stone, tasting blood.

They pinned me down, their weight crushing, and I couldn't move, couldn't breathe properly.

Ashford struggled to his feet, one hand still pressed to his bleeding nose, the other wiping at the gouges on his face.

His eyes, when he looked at me, were filled with pure hatred.

Ashford's boot caught me in the ribs, and I felt something crack, pain exploding through my chest.

I couldn't help the scream that tore from my throat.

"Beat her!" Ashford snarled at the guards, his voice thick with blood and rage. "Beat this bitch until she can't move!"

"Make her understand what happens when she resists!" His voice rose to a shriek. "This worthless bastard! Always too proud, always thinking she's better than her station!"

Another kick, this one to my stomach, and I retched, bile burning my throat.

"Today," Ashford hissed, leaning down so his bloodied face was close to mine, "today I'm going to teach you what you really are. What you've always been."

The guards began their work.

Fists rained down on my back, my sides, my legs. Boots connected with my ribs, my spine, my head.

Someone had a wooden club, and I felt it crack against my shoulder, my hip, my thigh.

This time they weren't holding back, weren't worried about "damaging the merchandise."

This was punishment, pure and brutal.

My screams echoed through the corridor, and I hated myself for screaming, but I couldn't stop.

In the other cells, women heard my cries.

But no one spoke up. No one dared to protest.

I don't know how long it lasted.

Time lost meaning under the rain of blows, under the crushing pain that seemed to come from everywhere at once.

Eventually, the beating stopped.

I lay on the floor, unable to move, barely able to breathe.

Every breath brought fresh agony, like knives stabbing into my lungs.

My left eye was swollen completely shut. My mouth was full of blood, and I could feel at least two broken teeth with my tongue.

At least two ribs were broken, maybe more, and each breath made them shift and grind, sending fresh waves of pain through my chest.

My right arm hung at an odd angle—dislocated or broken, I couldn't tell. I couldn't move it at all.

Ashford stood over me, straightening his disheveled clothes with shaking hands.