The Lycan King’s Treasured Luna novel Chapter 3

NARINE’S POV

The heavy thud of boots echoed through the narrow, rotten corridor rattling the very bones of this godforsaken place. A sharp shaft of light stabbed through the cracks of my dungeon, slicing across the filth-caked floor. The clatter of keys followed, then the groaning screech of rusted hinges. The cell door swung open with a whimper of protest.

I didn’t bother turning my head.

It didn’t matter who had come for me, they all blurred together now.

There were no windows here. No clocks and No way to tell day from night.

"Oi, you still ain’t dead yet?" Tobias barked, his voice bounced off the stone walls like broken glass. I heard the dull thud of a tray dropping beside me.

"You're one strong little b*tch, I’ll give ya that," he muttered, almost admiringly, before spitting on the ground. "It’s been three years, can you believe it? This f*ck*n' pit stinks worse than a rotting sewer. Last time I’m comin’ down here, mark my words."

Three years.

The words slithered into my mind like a poisoned dagger, but I felt nothing.

Had it really been that long? Had time forgotten me the same way the world had?

Tobias shook his head and shuffled off until the sound was swallowed by the dark.

I was alone again.

I stared up at the cracked ceiling, tracing the spiderweb of fractures again and again with my weary, hollow gaze.

Every split, every jagged vein etched into the stone above me had been memorized long ago like a map only I could read.

I knew every dent, and patch where mold bloomed like blackened sores. I could replicate it on canvas from memory alone.

That’s how long I had been rotting in this dungeon. Long enough for the ceiling to become more familiar than the faces of those I once loved. And now I know three years had passed by already.

It was almost laughable, the conditions now were better compared to when I first woke up here, naked and trembling on the frozen floor.

Cold bit into my skin that night like a living thing. My body curled instinctively into itself, a pathetic attempt to preserve some shred of warmth and dignity. Still. I had hope.

That was before they stripped it from me layer by layer, and shattered my soul, piece by agonizing piece.

Interrogation wasn't the word for it. Interrogation suggested questions and answers.

What they did was not for information. It was for the breaking.

I was beaten until the screams ripped free from my throat, even when my pride begged me to stay silent.

I had been prodded, and violated in every way imaginable. They dragged me again and again to the brink of death, only to wrench me back with cruel hands, there was no mercy.The longer I survived, the more creative they became.

Some days, the pain was so unbearable that my mind shut down and I would slip into blessed darkness. But every time I opened my eyes again, the nightmare continued. To their credit, they did try to get rid of me. Several times.

But my body, cursed thing that it is, betrayed them. My healing ability was relentless, knitting back together the damage faster than they could inflict it. They turned to silver in desperation, searing it into my flesh to poison the rapid repair. It worked, partially. It slowed the process and left map of scars etched into my skin.

Joe. I remembered him the most vividly.

He wasn't like the others. He was worse.

He treated me like a puzzle. He peeled my skin back like the husk of a fruit, probing for the 'monster' he swore lurked beneath. Layer by bloody layer.

He would let me shrivel, let dehydration blacken my lips, cracked my tongue and twist my stomach into knots, only to dangle a single drop of water in front of me.

"Shift," he would hiss, shoving the cup just out of reach. "Show me what you really are."

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