Page 44

The golden cage was cold when she woke.

Soft light spilled through the glass dome above, painting her skin in strokes of pale gold and shadow.

Her fingers flexed slowly against the velvet floor, limbs stiff from sleep.

Her eyes fluttered open and found nothing.

The velvet chair where Dante had slept the night before was empty.

The book—Dante’s Inferno was still open where he left it.

But he was gone.

Her heart stuttered.

“Dante?” she whispered, sitting upright, the long silk of her nightdress clinging to her thighs.

Her braid had unraveled in sleep, spilling down her back like ink.

She wrapped her arms around herself and scanned the room.

Still no sign of him.

A cold breeze slid beneath the glass dome. Her chest tightened.

“Dante,” she called again—louder this time. Her voice echoed lightly through the quiet garden wing.

Still, no answer.

She gripped the bars of the cage, her breathing quickening."Did he leave?"

The thought was absurd.

But panic doesn’t listen to logic.

What if he thinks of getting back to Roza? What if she’d poisoned his mind? What if he forgives her and brings her back in his life?

The door opened.

She jumped, heart in her throat.

But it wasn’t Dante.

A maid entered silent, slender, dressed in muted gray silk. Her hands folded before her, eyes lowered.

“Good morning, Miss,” she said with a soft nod. “Mr. Valencourt is attending to a matter of urgency. He asked me to bring you something to eat and keep you comfortable until he returns.”

Isolde pressed closer to the bars. “Where is he?”

The maid hesitated. “In the lower levels, Miss.”

Her stomach twisted. "The cell."

She didn’t ask more.

The maid didn’t explain.

Below in the cell.....

The cell stank of copper and mildew.

The old stone floor was slick, mottled with decades of blood and memory.

Chains rusted in the corners.

A single rusted drain sat beneath Roza’s knees like a mouth waiting to swallow.

Dante stood before her, sleeves rolled, his jaw shadowed in stubble.

His shirt clung to his body, black, ironed, perfect—like death wearing a suit.

His eyes, however, were monstrous. Unblinking. Patient.

Roza knelt with her wrists chained behind her.

Her body trembled from the cold, but she smirked with swollen lips, one tooth broken, her left eye already sealed in bruised purple.

“You’ll get bored of her,” she croaked. “Just like you got bored of me.”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t speak at all.

He walked to the steel tray at the wall.

Picked up a bone saw.

The sound alone made her flinch.

He turned it over slowly in his gloved hands, weighing it, examining the blade.

Then set it aside.

“I gave you the gift of time,” he said finally. “Now I’m going to take it back.”

He pulled a length of leather cord tight around her upper arm, binding it so the veins swelled.

Then he reached for the scalpel.

The first incision was shallow—across her bicep. A thin line of blood beaded instantly.

The second, deeper. Parallel. Clean.

Roza tensed, breath catching, the pain still manageable.

“You always liked precision,” she hissed.

He didn’t look at her face.

He peeled back the first layer of skin with tweezers—slowly—exposing the pink gleam of muscle beneath.

Her breath faltered.

He reached for a vial and poured alcohol across the exposed flesh.

Roza screamed.

The sound echoed through the chamber like something dying.

Dante stood straight again, watching as she convulsed against the chain, tears streaming down her cheek now—not from sadness, but from searing chemical agony.

“Still proud?” he asked.

She spat blood. “She’s not worth this.”

He picked up a branding iron, now glowing in the coal bucket beside the tray.

“She is to me.”

The hiss of flesh searing was deafening.

He pressed the iron just beneath her collarbone—long enough to imprint the letter “D” in her skin. "You love me right? Then I honour you to die with my mark"

She choked on a scream that sounded like fire made flesh.

Her legs gave beneath her.

Roza was sobbing now, breath ragged.

He tilted her chin.

“I thought I’d cut your tongue out first,” he murmured. “But then I realized…”

He picked up a rusted hammer. “You’ll need to scream for me first.”

The first strike landed on her kneecap.

Bone cracked.

She howled, convulsing, almost vomiting from the pain.

The second hit the ribs.

She slumped. Bloody spit dripped from her mouth.

Her breathing was ragged, uneven.

Blood painted the floor in strokes now.

He didn’t stop.

He whispered to her with each blow:

“She asked me to stay.”

“She kissed me even after seeing what I am.”

“She loves me.”

“You’ll die knowing you lost.”

He turned her head gently.

One last time.

Her face was unrecognizable bloodied, swollen, barely clinging to breath.

“You should have touched anyone else,” he whispered.

Then, slid the scalpel across her throat.

Not too deep.

Just enough to let her drown on her own blood.

She gurgled, choking, twitching as the life slipped from her eyes—slowly.

Painfully.

And Dante stood there, unmoving, watching as the woman who tried to destroy his world choked on the reality she created.

He left her body unburied.

Hung her chains from the ceiling.

And locked the door.

Hours Later — The Cage

The maid had left long ago.

Isolde sat curled in the corner, arms wrapped around her knees.

When the door opened, she rose instantly.

And there he was.

Dante.

His shirt fresh. Hands clean. Hair slightly damp.

But his eyes—

His eyes told the story. She didn’t speak.

She only stepped forward. He unlocked the cage.

She ran into his arms. Clutched his shirt.

Felt him breathe.

“You left,” she whispered.

“I came back.”

She looked up. “I need you to stay.”

He held her tighter. “I always do.”

And she believed him.