"You couldn't be more right, little witch."
Sylva heard those grating words spoken in a delightful tone, as if that was exactly what he was—and was proud of it.
She glared at his back as his figure disappeared and the door clicked shut behind him.
For a moment, the silence that followed was louder than the blow itself.
She breathed in and out, heavy and shallow, before finally letting her body go still against the floor. Then, with great effort, she shifted onto her back.
The hellhound curled at her side, whimpering softly, almost comfortingly.
Surprisingly, the sounds coming from the creature soothed her, and the pain, while still sharp and clawing at her nerves, became tolerable. Not gone—but manageable. Bearable, if only barely.
Seconds passed. Then minutes.
The throbbing in her head dimmed just enough for her to think.
He didn't touch me… but he didn't have to.
