Chapter 66: The Debt Of Blood

Rowan had followed Malachi into countless wars.

He had watched his Alpha split armies in half.

He had watched enemy Alphas beg.

He had always deeply respected the Alpha, but never, not once, feared the man he served.

Tonight...Rowan did.

The dungeon door groaned shut behind them, and Garett remained where he was. Chained and pressed to the walls, both legs dangling from the floor. Every ragged breath rattled through him, and he was naked.

He almost looked lifeless, with his dignity yanked off him, both hands gone, an eye socket empty, the set of his teeth either broken or ripped out out the gums. And his tongue was barely moving.

He had been left to bleed for two days.

If he were human, he would be long dead.

Right now, having a wolf that wouldn’t let him die was torture.

Malachi didn’t speak. He simply stood there, staring.

It was worse than shouting. Worse than rage.

It was the silence of a man who had already decided mercy no longer existed.

"You should be dead," Malachi finally said, "The only reason you’re still breathing... is because death would let you escape me."

Rowan lowered his eyes, already shaking again. It would have been better if he had seen Malachi come in with some kind of torture machine, but the man had only brought the worst of them all.

His bare hands.

"Alpha," His voice sounded like it was coming out after being dragged through wet stone, "Please...show mercy,"

"Mercy?!" Malachi leaned against the wall, tilting his head to the side a bit, "What is that again?"

Garrett’s lips parted, bloody and smelling, and he cried dreadfully and loudly, "Please...,"

"Oh, you mean that," Malachi nodded once, "I do recall my wife begging you. She begged you to stop, didn’t she?!"

Garrett shook brokenly, sweat all over his body, "Please...,"

"You wanted to imprint yourself in her. You wanted her to remember your face," Malachi stepped closer, his eyes brutally cold and merciless, "Now, you’re going to remember mine,"

Without warning, he grabbed one of Garrett’s legs and yanked out one of his toenails, making it so agonisingly slow and painful, watching as blood spluttered out like pressured water onto his face, rolling down his cheeks.

The long toenails took a few seconds — almost a minute with how slow Malachi was moving, and every second ripped life out of Garett’s life as his screams filled the underground cave, shaking the walls.

Once the entire blood-black finger was out, Malachi stared at it between his eyes, "One down...," He shoved the nail into Garett’s mouth, forcing him to swallow and feel as it tore down his throat, "Nine more to go, right?!"

Garett’s scream came out worse than the last. His entire body was shaking again, and the pain was so much that his eyes were now bloodshot from pain, and every nerve kept overloading his body with extreme pain.

"Every bruise," Malachi gripped the second toenails, his voice carrying no emotion at all, "Every slap," He started to pull, "Every whisper," Pulled harder, listening to Garett’s tortured scream, "And every nightmare. I’ll collect it all in debts of blood...and more blood,"

He finished pulling out the finger, and this time, he jabbed the sharp thing mercilessly into Garett’s bleeding, exposed meat where his hand once was.

He jabbed it over and over again into the wound, and the man could only scream and cough out more blood, praying to the Moon Goddess that she takes his life soon.

He would do anything for it to stop.

It should stop. Please!!!

Unfortunately, Malachi would do anything for it to continue.

And so, it did.

"Please, just kill me!!" Garrett was crying by the time Malachi got to his small toe, "Please, kill me, please!! I can’t take it anymore!"

"Oh yes, you cannot," Malachi simply returned and started to pull out the tiny finger, and Garrett started to scream again.

Rowan had stopped counting the screams.

At some point, they no longer sounded human.

The dungeon walls swallowed every cry, only to throw them back again, louder, harsher, until even the torches seemed to flicker uneasily.

Inside that chamber...Malachi barely spoke.

Every now and then, Garrett’s broken pleas would rise above the echoes.

"Please..."

"I’m sorry..."

"Please..."

They were answered only by the sound of blood dripping onto the floor, and Rowan understood then that this was no longer punishment.

It was judgment.

Every time Garrett begged for mercy, Rowan remembered another voice.

Della’s. After all, he’d been there when the Alpha had dragged Garrett away from her, along with half the shed.

He had seen Della in there, crumpled on the floor, barely holding onto her sanity and torn clothes, tears of horror rolling down her terrified eyes.

And suddenly Garrett’s cries inspired no pity at all.

The dungeon door remained closed for hours, and any servant who walked past the iron doors could hear his scream from inside.

Even the guards avoided looking toward the corridor.

No one wanted to know what was happening beyond those iron doors.

They only knew one thing.

The Alpha had gone into the dungeon.

And whatever emerged afterwards would not be the same man who had entered.

When the door finally opened, Rowan straightened immediately. Malachi stepped into the corridor without a word.

Blood stained his hands and the sleeves of his shirt, but it wasn’t the blood that unsettled Rowan.

It was his eyes.

The fury was still there.

Untouched.

Unsatisfied.

As though no amount of suffering could erase the image of Della bent over and half naked, terrified and alone.

"Kill me...," Garrett’s voice cracked from inside once again, and Malachi had the sudden, almost uncontrollable urge to go back in there and yank out the man’s tongue so he wouldn’t even be allowed the mercy of screaming out his lungs.

But no, Malachi held his legs back.

The man’s screams brought him the same level of satisfaction as it brought him the same level of anger. Just that both sides cancelled each other out, which was exactly why he remained unsatisfied.

And this dissatisfaction would probably never leave him, because no level of torture would ever sate him.

No level of torture would ever cure the madness in his head, and the clutching, tight pain in his heart.

He was forced to live with it.

That...was his curse. To remember the image of his mate, crying — unable to even cry properly, looking helpless as another man tried to force himself on her.

"He breathes." Malachi said.

Rowan bowed.

"He’ll continue to." There was no satisfaction in Malachi’s voice. Only a cold certainty, "Every morning he wakes up," He said, "He’ll remember why."

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