My Second Chance Mate is a Barbarian (Sera and Fenris) novel Chapter 161

Irina

There is a specific kind of agony that doesn't just burn; it vibrates. It’s the feeling of cold northern steel grinding against a rib, sending a high-pitched scream of nerves straight to the base of your skull. I was pinned to the hard wooden chair, my wrists bound with the shredded silk of my own crimson dress, and all I could think about was how much I hated my daughter for being right.

I had spent my life telling Sera that shrinking kept you safe. I told her that being small was a weapon. But as I stared at the massive, scarred chest of the warrior Kark, I realized that I had only been building my own cage.

She found nothing. Because she was a blunt northern instrument, and I was the Queen who had survived Aldric Valdris for two decades.

Yvara wiped a smear of dust from her cheek and turned back to me. She didn’t look frustrated. That was the most terrifying part. She looked like she was just getting started. She glanced over at Kark, the massive warrior who had spent the last hour treating me like a tavern whore on that balcony.

"He’s still breathing, Irina," Yvara said, her voice a raspy grind. She gestured with her chin toward the floor.

Torin was a pathetic sight. He was curled in a fetal position near the bedpost, his velvet doublet stained with snot and the blood leaking from his shattered nose. He was making a sound I hadn't heard from him in all our months of secret fucking—a high, thin, rhythmic keening. Like a wounded pup. It made my stomach turn. I had risked my crown for that? For a man who leaked fluid the second a northern woman showed him a blade?

"He’s an idiot," I rasped. My throat felt like it was lined with jagged glass. "He doesn't know anything."

"I know," Yvara agreed, almost pleasantly. She reached out and grabbed a handful of the feathers floating in the air, watching them drift. "But you do. And Kark here... he’s getting restless. He doesn't like being used as a distraction when there’s real work to be done."

The man held the knife that was already in me. It had been buried in my side for what felt like hours, a hot, jagged intrusion that made every breath feel like I was inhaling broken glass. Kark didn't pull it out. He didn't finish the job. He just stood there, his large hand gripping the hilt, and periodically gave it a slow, methodical twist.

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