Maisie
The whip was ash-tipped.
There was a crack, and the world fragmented as Quinlan bowed when the whip sliced into his back. He gritted his teeth, hissing, but did not cry out.
He only laughed.
It was the sixty-seventh lash.
The third restart.
The Queen sipped from her cup of tea, curling her hand through the strands of her mate's hair as he nuzzled her knee. Her cruel eyes were on me as she said, "Start over."
The whip lifted again.
That was when I lunged.
I did not think or care. I hurled myself toward the man with the whip, meaning to wrap the leather around his throat and drag him down with me if it killed us both.
Jericho caught me around the middle. Mercer caught my arms.
I fought them like an animal.
I screamed. Kicked. Bit down on whatever I could reach. They held me anyway, stoic and unyielding, Quinlan's blood wash all over the floors.
