“You’re just in time for the best part,” he continued, moving slowly toward Jaren.

“No, please,” Kiva begged, lunging forward. She only made it one step before her guard yanked her backwards, wrapping his other arm around her middle from behind.

“Uh-uh-uh,” he whispered in her ear, his breath like rotten fish. “You stay here. Best seat in the house.”

“Don’t worry, healer,” the Butcher called to her. “We’re just having some fun. You’ll enjoy it, I swear.”

And without any other warning, he drew back his arm and then flung it forward, the cat-o’-nine-tails swinging through the air . . . and lashing into Jaren’s flesh.

His body jerked violently, a moan leaving him, before he slumped against the post, it being the only thing that held him up.

Tears pooled in Kiva’s eyes and then flowed from them as the Butcher drew his arm back again.

“Don’t!” Kiva shouted, her voice breaking halfway through the word. “Stop!”

But the Butcher didn’t listen.

“STOP!” Kiva screamed when his whip flew through the air a second time. “STOP! PLEASE! STOP!”

She screamed at him over and over, but he was deaf to her pleas as he struck his whip into Jaren’s back.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Desperate, Kiva fought the guard holding her, wrestling in his arms to get away, to get to Jaren. But it was no use—he was too strong, his grip too tight, and she was forced to watch as the Butcher continued his torture, turning  Jaren’s flesh into a pulpy mess of lash marks.

Kiva was sobbing openly by the time the Butcher finally stepped back, her voice raw from screaming at him to stop.

And then he turned his pale eyes on her.

She didn’t have any room left in her to feel afraid as he strode over, his skin and clothes sprayed with Jaren’s blood, the whip dripping at his side. All she felt was rage. And fear. But not for herself—for Jaren, who was still tied to the post, unmoving.

“He’s fine. He’ll heal,” the Butcher said dismissively as he approached. “Rooke said to make him feel it, but no permanent damage.”

He looked disappointed, just when Kiva thought she couldn’t feel any more disgust.

She stared down at the whip, unable to stand the sight of the Butcher’s red-splattered face. Drip, drip, drip. She watched Jaren’s blood dribble onto the ground, nausea roiling within her.

The Butcher chuckled, reaching out to clasp Kiva’s chin, the painful clench of his fingers forcing her to look at him.