Aleiya opened her mouth as wide as she could, head tilted back so Sullivan could see past her teeth and fangs, her tongue laying flat so as not to obstruct his view.

  What Sullivan witnessed felt like he swallowed thick, and rancid milk. It was so uniquely putrid it sank, rotted, and festered.

  There, at the back of her throat, carved into the soft palate of her mouth like a fresh, open wound, was a magic circle.

  The scarlet glow pulsed—offensive, repulsive, wrong. It illuminated every cut, every curve, every stab made with surgical precision—deliberate in its cruelty.

  So vile.

  So wicked.

  So undeniably inhumane.

  He staggered back, hand clamped over his mouth. Revulsion churned in his gut—a rising tide of bile, burning through him like acid.

  Who did this to her? Why? How?

  Who had the authority?

  When?

  When?

  A flood of questions surged through his mind, but not a single answer surfaced.

  It wasn’t defiance or even shyness—she was literally, physically incapable of speech. The sheer brutality of it left him speechless, thoughtless. He was left adrift in silence inside and out.

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  He opened his mouth to tell her… what exactly?

  He was sorry? She needed more than apologies, she—

  He stopped.

  Through his revulsion, their eyes met in the darkness of the hallway. As his thoughts reeled, she still held herself to the standard of the prim and pretty little doll. Her pupil-less moonstone eyes—grey to pearl to white—were alight with a faint ethereal glow.

  A vision of beauty.

  Her white silk dress was perfectly tailored to her body. The flowers in her hair were the perfect decoration. And how can a doll be fully dressed without her perfectly painted smile? A lovingly crafted object meant to be seen and never heard.

  He tore his eyes away, too sick and impure to keep her gaze.

  The last cord of his self-control was unraveling, down to its final thread—ready to snap. Sullivan grasped hold of his own face, feeling his perfectly curated restraint slipping between his fingers. His nails sharpened, digging into his skin through the silk of his glove, clawing to hold together whatever sense of control he had left.

  He couldn’t even breathe as if taking in whatever air had touched her would burn him.

  His very spirit was drowning in disgust and rage. But even as his eyes bled to black, the purple veins spread to his neck—

  Who was he to be so angry on her behalf?

  Who was he to even care?

  Who was he to lift his gaze to her when he was nothing but another owner of the beautifully hollow doll?

  He had held her like she was his. Touched her like she was his. Even dared to defile her lips with his own like it was meaningless foreplay. And yet—he had never even asked her for her own name. Never wondered what she wanted. Never once questioned his claim.

  He felt a tug at his limp hand.

  All thoughts ceased.

  He slowly removed his face from his grasp to look down, unsure of what he was touching.

  Both of her hands held onto his fingers, just the tips as if any more was unforgivable. So delicate and airy, he couldn’t feel the pressure through the glove, but the crackling burn ebbed, then numbed at the touch. He dared to raise his eyes to see concern marring that doll-like visage.

  Innocent and even afraid.

  His breath slowly came back to him.

  His thread of sanity mended itself.

  The veins retreated.

  He gently turned the hand she held so he could cradle her fingers with his own—to hold her, to keep her—but she snatched them away. She withdrew as if she did something wrong—an overstep too indecent to overlook. Too much to forgive.

  It hurt him.