“Don’t worry, healer. Rooke said you’re not to be touched.” A dark grin lit his face. “He figured you’d be punished more by having to watch.” He used his other hand to wipe a tear from her cheek, his grin widening when she tried to jerk away from him, his fingers at her chin tightening. “Looks like he was right.” He chuckled again, before his gaze flicked to the guard behind her. “Keep an eye on her friend. If he moves . . .” The Butcher handed over the bloodied whip, and the guard took it, nodding eagerly.

Kiva didn’t have any words left, any screams left, as the Butcher released her chin, only to latch on to her shoulder and force her to turn around. She couldn’t summon any relief that she wasn’t to be flogged next, because Rooke had been right about her punishment—watching was worse. Her purpose in life was to heal people, not hurt them. And there Jaren was, suffering not only because of her, but also instead of her.

“Move, healer,” the Butcher ordered, shoving her toward the door.

She stumbled along with him, walking in a daze, unable to conceive what she was meant to do, how she was meant to feel, since her mind just kept replaying the whip striking  Jaren over and over again.

Unsatisfied with her pace, the Butcher wrapped his fingers tightly around her wrist, dragging her down the stone corridor. His hand was wet against her flesh, and when Kiva looked at where they were joined, she gagged at the sight of Jaren’s blood being transferred onto her skin.

“Hurry up,” the Butcher growled, tugging her viciously after him.

“Where are you taking me?” Kiva finally managed to rasp.

“There are different kinds of torture, did you know that?” he said, his tone conversational as he continued hauling her along. “There’s the physical kind, like the fun I just had with your boyfriend.”

Fun. The Butcher considered what he’d just done fun.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Kiva whispered hoarsely, even as the loud whack, whack, whack of his whip meeting  Jaren’s flesh continued echoing in her ears, the memory refusing to fade.

“Then there’s the psychological kind,” the Butcher went on, oblivious to her inner turmoil. Or perhaps reveling in it. “Rooke only told me not to get physical with you.” A flash of teeth. “He didn’t mention anything else.”

He paused to let that sink in, but Kiva was too numb to feel alarmed. All she could do was stare at the blood on the Butcher’s arms, legs, chest, face.

So much blood.

Her fault—it was all Kiva’s fault.

“Are you . . .” She could barely ask her question, but she needed to know, so she croaked out, “Are you going to kill him?”

A sharp laugh from the Butcher. “Oh, no.”

Kiva wilted with relief.

“But when he wakes up, he’ll wish I had.”