Page 105 of The Final Contract

He looks enough like Killian that my chest wrenches, but his eyes are wrong. Harder. Colder. Empty in a way Killian’s could never be.

“Well, well, well.” Cormac drags on the cigarette again, letting the smoke spill from his mouth like he’s drawing out the suspense. “Seraphina.”

He says my name slowly, rolling each letter, as though he’s testing it on his tongue.

“Glad you woke up in time.” His voice carries a faint Irish lilt, heavier than Killian’s but not so thick it masks the cruelty behind it. “Thought you were going to miss the big show.”

His smile grows, and it’s nothing but knives.

My throat works around the gag, desperate to form words, but all that comes out is a muffled sound. Still, he understands. He tilts his head, smoke curling from his lips.

“You’re wondering about your guard, aren’t you?” His tone is flat, almost bored. “Poor Finn. Loyal old dog. To some at least. Not his family, though.”

He taps ash onto the stone floor, eyes never leaving mine. “Probably in a body bag by now, I would say.”

The words hit harder than any fist. My eyes squeeze shut, a tear breaking free and sliding down my cheek.

He crouches in front of me, the shift of his weight making the chair creak beneath me. His face is so close now I can smell the smoke on his breath, the tang of nicotine and something darker.

“But you shouldn’t worry about anyone but yourself… Seraphina.”

This time, he spits my name like it tastes foul, like it’s poison in his mouth.

His hand shoots up, fingers clamping down on my cheeks, squeezing until my jaw aches. He forces my face up, forces me to look into those cold, empty eyes that feel like they’re burrowing into my skull.

The cigarette glows bright in his other hand as he brings it closer. Slowly. Too slowly. The burning tip aimed at my face.

“I have something special in mind for you.”

My heart pounds against the ropes holding me. I try to stay still, try to keep my body from jerking back, but tiny whimpers still slip past the gag. The heat radiates off the cigarette as he hovers it closer and closer to my eye.

And I know—God, I know—he would do it. He’d blind me and smile while I screamed.

I force myself still, chest heaving, my lashes wet as another tear tracks down.

Then, just as suddenly as he started, he jerks the cigarette back. As though he’s lost interest in the game. He sticks it between his lips again, inhales deep, and exhales like nothing happened.

His dozen men chuckle from their various positions around me.

The click of his lighter echoes as he checks his watch with a casual glance. Smoke curls into the ruined air.

“Mmm… three minutes.” His voice is almost sing-song. “Just enough time to let our little angel in on the festivities for the night.”

I don’t have time to wonder what that means before he moves again.

No warning as to what he does next.

The cigarette comes down hard against my thigh, searing through fabric, biting into skin.

The pain rips through me, white-hot, and I scream against the gag, thrashing in the ropes as the smell of my own burning flesh fills the air.

He presses it in, grinding it deeper.

The heat lingers even after he pulls the cigarette away, a molten ache burrowed deep into my thigh. My body shakes,breath tearing out of me too fast, too heavy. I try to pull it together, to compose myself, to give him nothing—but I can’t stop the tears. Can’t stop the wet streaks cutting down my cheeks or the sound of my ragged breathing through the gag. It feels like lava has been poured into me, boring straight through flesh to bone.

He crouches again, watching me tremble. His hand flashes up, fingers striking across my face in a sharp slap—not hard enough to split my lip, not hard enough to make me see sparks, but enough to jolt me. To pull my focus back to him.

“Listen.” His voice is rough, low, threaded with something colder than cruelty. “This is important, burning angel.”