"Where did you find them?" I stammered, regretting the question as soon as it left my lips. There were so many things I wanted to know, but my frozen mind couldn't form the words.
The Lycan king's hands clamped onto my shoulders. "It doesn't matter," he said, his voice dripping with sadistic pleasure. Even without seeing his face, I knew he wore his wicked smirk – or should I say, smug smile? Whatever it was, it always infuriated me.
He gestured toward a table displaying an arsenal of torture tools with rusty hinges, razor-sharp edges, and blood-crusted surfaces. The air reeked of iron and pain, as if the tools had been bathed in others' suffering. Bloodstains marred the metal, like gruesome fingerprints, and a faint scent of copper lingered.
My gaze drifted over the tools, and my stomach churned. I didn't need to ask who had used them; the answer was all too clear.
"You want me to torture them?" I whispered, already knowing the answer.
