Chapter 178

Chapter 178: Chapter 178

Julian’s pov

For three days, I refined the art of breaking him down.

It was astonishingly easy. A hybrid deprived of his mate’s aura was already half-decayed; all I had to do was nudge the process along.

I cut his rations down to a single cup of lukewarm water every twenty-four hours. I turned off the heating grid in the west wing, letting the biting mountain draft turn the stone floorboards into slabs of ice.

When he asked for a blanket to stop his shivering, I brought him a single, damp towel. When he grew too sick to stand, I left him lying in his own sweat on the cold leather sofa.

And the best part? Drake never checked on him.

Drake remained locked in the east wing, immersed in territory politics, cold-bloodedly pretending his former favorite no longer existed. He had given me full administrative control over the prisoner, and I intended to use every ounce of that authority to turn Lysander into a completely unhinged, feral mess.

I swiped my silver master key through the digital reader, the heavy iron lock disengaging with a loud thunk.

I pushed the door open, stepping smoothly into the cell.

The room was freezing. The air was stale with the bitter smell of cold sweat, rain, and exhaustion. Lysander was lying curled in a ball on the leather sofa, wrapped in his heavy charcoal sweater, his knees pulled tight against his chest. His skin was deathly pale, his dark hair matted, his lips dry and cracked.

On the small wooden table sat the pitcher of water I had brought him yesterday, completely empty.

"Get up, little bird," I purred, letting the heavy door slide shut behind me with a sharp click.

Lysander didn’t move immediately. He just let out a weak, shuddering breath, his dark eyes slowly opening to stare at my polished leather boots. He looked hollowed out, his eyelids shadowed by deep, dark purple bruises of absolute exhaustion.

"I said, get up," I repeated, my tone dropping into a cold, sharp command.

I walked over to the sofa, reached down, and grabbed the thick collar of his hoodie, yanked him upright with a single, harsh jerk.

Lysander gasped, his bare feet hitting the floor, his hands instinctively flying to the front of his sweater, clutching the thick fabric tight over his middle. He swayed dangerously, his knees wobbling as if his bones were made of dry glass.

"Where is the water?" he rasped out, his voice a broken, painful thread. He looked at the empty pitcher on the table, his dark eyes wide and wild with a desperate, animal thirst. "Julian... please. Just a glass of water."

"You haven’t earned water today," I sneered, taking the silver pitcher from the table and tossing it casually onto the bed. "In fact, you haven’t earned anything. You’ve done nothing but sit in here and bleed weak, pathetic tears over a lord who wouldn’t wipe his boots on your face."

A sudden, unexpected spark flickered in Lysander’s hollow eyes.

It was faint, but that stubborn streak of his suddenly flared up through the exhaustion. He clamped his jaw shut, his hands shaking violently as he took a ragged, furious step toward me.

"Get out of my room," Lysander choked through his teeth, his hybrid energy giving a pathetic, erratic little spike. "Get out... or I swear to God I’ll kill you myself."

I blinked, and then a slow, dark grin spread across my face.

There it is, I thought, my chest swelling with cruel delight. The feral little beast finally wants to bite.

"Is that a threat, hybrid?" I purred smoothly.

Before he could react, I struck.

I shoved him hard in the chest. Lysander crashed backward, his spine hitting the wooden edge of the worktable with a loud, sickening crack. He let out a breathless gasp of pain, doubling over, his hands immediately flying to shield his lower abdomen as he collapsed onto his knees on the cold floorboards.

"You really think you’re in a position to make threats?" I sneered, stepping over his trembling frame.

I grabbed him by his wet hair, yanking his head back so he was forced to look up at me. His face was twisted in agony, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes, his teeth gritted tightly against the pain radiating through his back.

"Look at you," I whispered, leaning down until my fangs almost brushed his pale, sweaty cheek. "Pathetic. Weak. A filthy little half-breed who thought he could play with us."

Lysander didn’t cry out. He just gritted his teeth, his hand pressed tight against his stomach, glaring up at me with pure, unadulterated hatred.

I let go of his hair, letting his head drop forward, and turned toward the center of the room. It was time to finish the job.

I walked over to the heavy, carved mahogany sideboard near the window, an antique piece Drake had imported from the old capital, worth more than a estate guard’s annual salary. On top of it sat a pair of heavy, crystal decanters and a hand-blown glass sculpture Drake’s family had owned for three centuries.

I reached out, grabbed the glass sculpture, and raised it high above my head.

"Julian... no..." Lysander gasped from the floor, his eyes widening in terror as he realized what I was doing. "Don’t—"

I slammed the antique glass sculpture onto the hardwood floorboards.

CRASH!

The glass shattered into a thousand razor-sharp splinters, exploding across the wood, sending sharp shards flying toward the sofa and the walls.

I didn’t stop there. I grabbed the heavy mahogany decanters, smashing them against the edge of the sideboard, shattering the dark crystal, letting the deep red blood-wine spill out like a arterial spray across the white walls and the floor. I kicked over the solid wooden table, sending it crashing into the wall, splintering the oak frame with a loud, violent bang that echoed right down the corridor.

"Julian, stop!" Lysander screamed, trying to scramble up off his knees, but his weak legs gave out, and he fell back onto the floor, clutching his stomach as he watched the destruction in sheer, helpless horror. "Stop it!"

I turned to face him, my dark jacket slightly rumpled, my hair artfully messy. I reached up with my own hand, digging my sharp fingernails into my own cheek, dragging them down until four deep, bloody scratches welled up across my pale skin.

I let out a sharp, breathless gasp, wincing in dramatic pain, and wiped the blood across my silk collar.

Lysander stared at me, his mouth slightly open, his dark eyes wide with utter shock and disbelief as the horrifying reality of the trap closed around his neck.

"You..." Lysander whispered, his voice trembling violently. "You’re insane..."

"I’m efficient," I corrected smoothly, straightening my lapels, my smile turning cold, razor-sharp, and triumphant as I looked at the bloody scratches on my face and the ruined room around us.

I walked toward the heavy iron door, stepping over the shattered glass, and pressed the emergency alert button on my belt terminal.

A loud, piercing alarm immediately blared through the west wing corridor, red security lights flashing wildly against the doorframe.

I turned back to look at Lysander one last time. He was huddled on the floor amidst the broken crystal and spilled wine, pale, trembling, and completely helpless, clutching his stomach as the heavy footsteps of the estate guards thundered down the hallway toward us.

"Let’s see Drake protect you after this, little bird," I whispered, and threw the door wide open.