A metallic tang filled Viktor’s nostrils. It hit him the moment he stepped through the bedroom door. His eyes, usually impassive, widened fractionally. The opulent room, usually pristine, was a scene of chaos. Silk sheets lay torn, a riding crop rested discarded on the floor, its leather stained a disturbing crimson. His gaze snapped to the bed. Sela lay there, a broken doll. Her skin, once so vibrant, was a roadmap of purple bruises and angry red welts. Cuts crisscrossed her thighs and torso. A sickening, sweet odor of blood and infection clung to the air. Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow, almost imperceptible. Raw horror seized him. A tremor ran through his powerful frame. He moved, not with his usual predatory grace, but with a frantic urgency. Each step echoed too loudly in the sudden silence of the room. He reached the bedside, his jaw clenching. Something white caught his eye on the nightstand. A crumpled piece of paper. His fingers, usually so precise, fumbled as he picked it up. The handwriting was Sela’s – delicate, yet defiant, even in its despair. 'Go to your second female,' the note read, the words swimming before his vision. 'Since the only thing you ever loved about me was my body, I destroyed it. At least, if you had told me sooner, I wouldn't have been foolish enough to love you.' His breath hitched. The words were a brand, searing into his soul. His 'second female'? Love? He crumpled the note in his fist, his knuckles white. The depth of her misunderstanding, the agony she must have endured, was a physical blow. He dropped to his knees beside the bed. His hand, shaking, reached for her wrist. Her pulse was a faint whisper against his fingertips, a fragile butterfly wing fluttering on the brink of stillness. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through his composure. This was Sela. Dying. He leaned closer, calling her name, a guttural sound torn from his throat. Her eyelids fluttered, then slowly lifted. Her purple eyes, dulled by pain, found his. A flicker of recognition, then pure, venomous hatred blazed within their depths. Her hand, surprisingly swift, shot out. A sharp crack echoed as her palm connected with his cheek. The force was weak, yet the sting was profound. It was a slap of raw, unadulterated fury, a desperate attempt to wound him as she had been wounded. He didn't flinch, didn't react beyond the initial jolt. He deserved it.

Chapter 6: The Blade's Kiss