90

90

Mason's POV

The dungeon smelled like sweat, blood, and the faintest hint of desperation. My favorite cocktail.

I descended the stone steps leisurely, the torchlight casting long, flickering shadows on the damp walls. The guards straightened at my approach, their faces blank, their bodies stiff. They knew better than to speak unless spoken to.

Adrian's cell was at the farthest end, past the other prisoners who cowered or turned their faces away as I walked by. They weren't my concern. Only one man held my interest, and he was shackled like a rabid dog, right where he belonged.

I stopped in front of his cell and leaned casually against the iron bars, taking my time, savoring the moment.

"Well, well, look who's still breathing," I drawled, tapping my fingers against the bars. "I have to say, Adrian, I'm impressed. I thought you'd have cracked by now. Maybe clawed your own throat out in a desperate attempt to escape your misery."