Ronan

Chapter Four

So it's no more Mr Nice Guy.

Rosa was surprised he'd lasted so long. Especially with her pushing. Suppose, anyone with a bit of sense about them would've known better than to mess with Ronan. But I've got nothing to lose.

He wouldn't threaten Meg, the only thing Rosa cared about. Doing that would come with its own list of problems—namely the allies. Besides that, his only bargaining chip was her life. Again, that came with a list of problems.

With her knowledge of the prophecy, Ronan couldn't just kill her. He could talk a big game, sure, but that's all it could be—talk. Beyond that was the fact that Rosa didn't care. She knew she was going to die. Did she want to? No. But she'd come to terms with it a long time ago.

If push came to shove, she'd be ready.

I've already picked where abouts I want my grave.

Would Ronan grant her that dying request? He'd better. She knew exactly where to place it so that he'd see it every time he looked out of a window and hopefully feel terrible.

As a fresh set of warlocks dragged her through Triumph's only standing building, she took in the sights—or lack thereof—surrounding her. So the illusion's still real.

Ronan's castle didn't work the same way as the average castle. There were doors and hallways, except they all seemed to lead to the same place. Rosa knew well enough it was for the mystery. Visitors didn't stand a chance at escape if they didn't know where abouts they were. Rosa, however, had figured out the castle's workings a long time ago. Just like the land, this structure was in tune with Ronan. Instinct was the only map available.

Talking to a formation of warlocks was useless, so Rosa didn't bother.

I wouldn't have anything to say anyway.

What would one talk about with a warlock? I like your cloak, it's like, so fashion forward.

She stayed quiet, making life hard for them as she dragged her feet, towed through the castle to the next holding cell.

This time, she was in for a treat.

Her stomach dropped at the sight of the set up. Yet again.

Lucky. Me.

It looked like a mortal realm recording studio. At the room's centre was a glass panel, separating the two sides. The warlocks dragged her through the first half, equipped with fancy machinery and monitors. Two guesses at where they're taking me.

They pushed her behind that glass wall. The temperature dropped the second she entered. A fancy pole was situated just in front of her, with latches for the many chains dangling from its sides.

Enough to keep down a werewolf.

The excessiveness would be wasted on Rosa.

But they strapped her in anyway, careful, gloved fingers tangling the chains into place. She shivered when the cool metal touched her skin.

"Don't I get a chair?"

No one answered her.

Surprise, surprise.

She winced when they wired her into the machine, clipping cables onto her fingers and prods onto her head. Stickers were placed on her forehead. An iron looking crown rested over her scalp, knotting through her curls.

The second she was wired in, the door sealed—as if she could actually escape— and the warlocks left. They were under strict instruction not to interact with her, no doubt. Not that she'd want to talk to them, anyway. But the silence alone would start to suffocate her.