Valka
Lucien slams my wrist into the door. Once. Twice. Thrice, until my fingers go numb and the knife clatters to the ground. A collective cheer erupts beyond the chamber walls. Someone mutters something about not being able to walk straight for a week.
My knee jerks up hard into his groin, and he hisses through his teeth, breath sharp and pained. "Stop that."
"Why?" I rasp, thrashing beneath his weight. "Does it hurt?"
His hips grind forward -- not intentional, I think, but enough that something hard brushes against my stomach. My heart jolts. "On the contrary," he grunts, eyes flashing gold, and then black. And then gold again. Like he's glitching. Like something inside is trying to claw its way out.
"Let me go." I twist, snapping against the restraints of his hand. One hand. Just one clasps both my wrists like manacles, caging them above my head to the door.
