Then he lifted her off the ground. In one swift movement, he looped the rope binding her around a bronze hook protruding from one of the wooden beams.
Suddenly she was hanging there, just like the two half-dead fae next to her. The chain of iron fell down her front, dangling like a dead weight between her breasts.
Maeve stole a breath, but it was shallow. She couldn’t see anything except the pieces of splintered wood in front of her, where likely dozens of other fae had met their end in one way or another. She focused on the whorls, where dark oak met light, where they swirled together, then peeled away. It was only physical pain, and she’d survived worse. She’d been locked into a cage over a dangerous cliff as a child, she’d been trained to fight until she was bloody and bruised, she’d been poisoned, stabbed, and had her body mutilated by a sadistic bastard.
But she’d also been loved.
Fully and completely.
So, she would endure. For her friends, for her family. For Tiernan.
She would endure.
From somewhere behind her, Parisa was humming. Maeve thought the tune was vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place it. Nor did she care enough to try.
Maeve craned her neck for a better view.
Parisa was browsing her selection of wares on one of the tables. She’d selected her whip of choice—it was long with multiple pieces of tightly bound leather, and dangling from the tip was a knot covered in silver spikes. She picked it up, lifting the ball of spikes for Maeve to see.
Gliding toward the post, Parisa peered up at her, that singular dead eye of hers glinting with malice. “This is going to hurt me more than it will hurt you.”
Maeve huffed. “Unlikely.”
Turning away, Parisa disappeared behind Maeve.
The whip cracked loudly, and Maeve’s body involuntarily convulsed.
“Maeve.” She drew out her name in her saccharine voice. “How old are you?”
“Five and twenty.” Maeve forced the words out between gritted teeth.
“That’s it? Such a pity. You’re only a baby.” It could have been awe in her tone. Or loathing. “Very well. Twenty-five lashes for each year of your miserable existence.”
There was no warning, just the devastating sound of a crack, and the immense pain of spikes piercing her flesh. They ripped down her back, tearing at her skin, shredding through the scars already marking her. These would not be the pretty swirls Fearghal carved into her, they would be vicious streaks of rage. White hot pain seared through her as Parisa struck again. And again.
Six.
Maeve kept count in her mind, refusing to cry out. She would not give Parisa the satisfaction.
One particularly heinous lashing caught her shoulder, and she jerked as the sting was enough to leave her breathless. Her body was twitching on its own now, flinching as every strike of the whip scoured her, ruined her.
Fourteen.
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing away the sting of tears. Instead, she focused solely on Tiernan. She thought of his smile as the spikes snagged deeper into her skin. His caress as the warmth of her blood dripped down her spine, and the soft splatter of it filled the space between the crack of the whip and her labored breathing. She imagined he was standing right there in front of her, cupping her cheeks with both of his hands,willing her to survive for him. Even as she shivered in dread, mentally preparing for the next lashing.
But Maeve held true, she did not utter one cry of anguish. In turn, she took it all and gave Parisa nothing.
Twenty-five.
The last and, quite possibly, the worst. For this time, the spikes stuck, lodged in her back.
She swallowed down the rank air as Gromede strode over and wrenched the whip free. Her nose tingled. Her eyes flooded.
Maeve shook her head.
No. She would not cry. Not here. Not ever.
The soft click of heels sounded from somewhere off to her right.
