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The knife in his hand gleams under the single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling.

It swings slightly—like a pendulum ticking down the seconds until the end.

I want to move.

To scream.

To fight.

But I can’t.

My body refuses to obey.

My heart beats like a war drum in my ears, loud enough to drown out everything but the sound of his footsteps scraping across the concrete floor.

He’s barefoot now.

I don’t know when he took off his shoes, but the quiet pat-pat of skin on stone makes my skin crawl.

“Please don’t,” I whisper, and it sounds like someone else.

Weak.

Small.

Not the daughter of Destiny and Marat Volkov.

Not the woman Balor Cruz kissed this morning with eyes full of promise and love.

Just me.

A terrified girl trapped in a body that won’t move.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, voice shaking now. “You were meant for me. I gave you songs. I gave you fame. I gave you everything!”

“You gave me nothing,” I rasp.

His expression shatters. For a second, I think he might cry.

Then he laughs.

Sharp. Insane. Desperate.

The knife flashes as he raises it, and I flinch, instinct finally kicking in as I scramble backward on the floor, the rough surface scraping my palms raw.

“I was going to save you,” he whispers. “But now? I have to mark you. Make you mine. They’ll see. Everyone will see.”

He lunges, his heavy body crushing me against the floor.

I feel the tip of the blade eat into my flesh, and then—I scream.

Chapter Thirty-Eight-Balor

I don’t blink.

Not once.

I am so fucking focused.