King Novel novel Chapter 43

Chapter 43

Chapter 43

The first thing I notice is the silence.

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Not the eerie, expectant kind that stretches before a storm. No, this one is absolute. It’s the silence that sucks the air out of the room, choking you in the process and, pressing down like a dumbbell on my chest. We’re surrounded by that exact kind

of silence.

The rogues, who were laughing as they beat the shit out of me minutes ago, now stand rigid. Their heads are bowed, their eyes averted. Their spines are all straight as if a single twitch would be a death sentence.

And then, he steps forward.

His figure is still draped in darkness, and his presence alone is making the air colder. He moves unhurriedly, as if he already owns the space, owns every pathetic body in it–including mine.

My stomach twists.

I know before he even speaks–this man is not like the others of the rogues.

He doesn’t carry the wild, unpredictable aggression of the rogues. No snarling, no gloating. Just cold, controlled authority. And it’s terrifying.

He stops in front of me. From this close, I catch the details–the sharp old wrinkles of his face–around late fifties, the subtle lines around his mouth that suggest he smirks often, but never kindly. He’s older, though not ancient, with dark hair streaked in silver and eyes that seem too intelligent for someone who enjoys this kind of cruelty.

A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

His lips curl into something that might be considered a smile if it weren’t so devoid of warmth.

“Do you know who I am?”

I don’t answer.

I can’t.

His presence alone is enough to make my battered body scream for me to stay silent. But it’s not fear that keeps me quiet. It’s the knowledge that whatever I say will never be the right answer.

“You are quite the little nuisance, aren’t you?” He murmurs, as if we’re discussing something as mundane as the weather.

He tilts his head, studying me as though one might study a bug before deciding whether to crush it or pull its wings off first.

Then, he smiles.

And that’s when I know–I’m about to experience true pain.

It starts slow.

Not like the rogues, who threw punches and kicks earlier, without any real plan beyond the thrill of watching me hurt.

No, this man doesn’t need brute force. His methods are fucking’precise.

A silver blade glints in the dim light before pressing into my arm, sinking in just enough to make my nerves scream. He doesn’t push it deep, just lets the tip slide across my skin, splitting it open like paper.

“Ah!” I groan, lowering my had to bite down on my bottom lip.

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Pain flares, hot and sharp fucking pain.

I suck in a breath through my teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a sound.

He watches the blood bead, then trail down my arm as if he’s admiring a fucking painting.

“Do you know what I like about silver on wolves?” He quietly asks, “It doesn’t just cut. It lingers.”

He twists the blade slightly, and my muscles seize, White–hot agony pulses through my body, and radiated out from the wound. It’s spreading like wildfire beneath my skin.

Still, I say nothing.

Fuck, be strong, Taryn!

He hums, pulling the knife away, as if he’s only getting started.

The next wound is on my thigh. Then my ribs. Each cut is methodical, each placement is goddamn intentional. He’s testing my limits, seeing how much I can také before I break.

And I won’t.

I fucking won’t.

His disappointment is mild. If anything, he seems entertained.

At some point, he stops using weapons altogether. Instead, he presses against my ribs, the ones already bruised and cracked from earlier, and applies just enough pressure to make me see stars.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, watching my face carefully, “what has changed about the Lycan King?”

I let out a breath. Spit blood at his feet.

His response is a soft sigh. Amused.

“Oh, little girl.” He tsks, shaking his head like I’m some defiant child. “You really don’t understand, do you?”

Then–he moves.

Claws extend, sinking into my shoulder, deep enough that I feel them scrape against bone.”

“Ah!” A scream rips from my throat before I can stop it.

Darkness swirls at the edges of my vision, taunting me, coaxing me to let go and just sleep. To sink into unconsciousness.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

I won’t fucking break.

Not now.

Not ever.

***

The bastard is enjoying this.

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It has been three houses in and he still watches me, head tilted as if I’m an insect he’s debating on crushing beneath his boot. The silver blade glints as he twirls it between his fingers, deliberate, savoring the moment. I don’t even flinch when he presses it against my ribs again, the edge cold, a mockery of the feverish burn inside my wounds.

“You have remarkable pain tolerance,” he muses, voice smooth and unhurried. “Most would be begging by now.”

I glare up at him, jaw tight, blood pooling in my mouth. I don’t spit this time. Waste of energy. I just smile, all teeth, even as my lungs protest the sharp inhale.

“Guess I’m just built different,” I rasp.

He chuckles. Actually chuckles. Like this is amusing. Then, without warning, he drives his claws into my shoulder again, straight through flesh and muscle, twisting.

The scream rips out of me before I can stop it, white–hot agony flooding every nerve. My body jerks, instincts screaming at me to get away, but there’s nowhere to go. The chains rattle. My legs tremble.

I fucking hate him.

He leans in, the scent of blood thick between us. “Now, tell me what has changed about the Lycan King.”

I swallow past the bile crawling up my throat. “Go fuck yourself.”

The claws twist deeper.

Another scream.

He waits, as if expecting me to crack.

I won’t.

He pulls his hand back, my blood staining his fingers, and inspects it like he’s admiring a painting. Then, he exhales, like I’m a disappointing student who just failed an exam.

“Let her rot for now,” he says, stepping back. “Perhaps she’ll feel more talkative after a few days without food.”

The guards drag me up. My legs nearly give out, but they don’t care. One of them laughs as he shoves me forward. I barely catch myself before my knees hit the ground.

The bastard is already walking away, done with his fun.

The moment the door slams shut, I listen.

Footsteps fading.

The guards outside, relaxed. Laughing. Drinking.

They think I’m too weak to move.

They’re wrong.

Step one: Wriggle free.

My wrists are slick with blood. Good. Less friction. I twist, pull, ignoring the way the metal bites into open wounds. The pain barely registers. It’s just another part of me now.

Step two: Silence.

Every movement should be controlled in silence. Slow. Breathe through the agony. No sudden noises. No indication I’m

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awake and plotting.

Step three: Get the fuck out.

The moment my wrists slip free, I move. Fast. My legs shake, but I force them to hold. The chains clatter softly as they hit the floor. Too soft for the guards to hear.

I stumble to the door, breath shallow. It creaks open an inch, revealing a dimly lit hallway. Empty.

Now or never.

The halls stretch ahead, dark and quiet.

I run.

It’s not graceful. It’s not fast. But I run.

My heartbeat is a roar in my ears. Every step sends a fresh jolt of pain through my ribs, but I can’t stop. Won’t stop.

The air is damp, thick with the scent of rot. The corridor twists, narrows. A door at the end. A way out.

The moment I hit the tree line, I don’t think.

I just run.

The cold bites into my wounds, each step a fresh kind of hell. My breath comes in ragged gasps. The world is a blur of shadows, twisting, endless.

Then–voices.