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The sound cut through walls, conversation, and the clatter of the kitchen.

Not an angry shout.

Pain.

My heart lurched into my throat.

Every person in the room froze.

A knife stopped halfway through a tomato.

Marta’s hand went still against the counter.

One of the guards near the door lifted his head and listened.

The dungeon was on the other side of the compound, yet his scream had carried all the way here.

Then the guard looked away.

The knife came down.

Someone opened a cabinet.

The kitchen started moving again as if nothing had happened.

As though a man screaming beneath the house was no more remarkable than a dog barking outside.

Something inside me flared.

I tightened my fingers around the bottles and food and walked out.

I had to walk, not run.

I had to keep my face composed and pretend the sound hadn’t nearly ripped me apart.

Then came another strangled scream.

My stride broke. I caught myself, dug my nails into the packets of food, and kept moving, every step making me angrier.

By the time I reached my room, I was barely holding myself together.

I slammed the door shut, crossed to the vanity, and dropped the water and food on the surface hard enough to rattle Mother’s perfume bottles.

“Damn it.”

I stomped toward the bed, turned before I reached it, and crossed the room again. My teeth caught the edge of my thumbnail while my mind raced through everything I could do and every reason I couldn’t do any of it.

Another turn.

Another trip across the room.

“I can’t just stand here.”

Something struck below with a hard, ugly crack that carried through the floor.

I stopped dead.

Then Lachlan screamed again.