The dark room was a cold, damp tomb deep within the foundations of the Thompson estate. It was a place designed to break spirits. There was no furniture, only a hard, unforgiving stone floor and a single, tiny window, high up in the wall, too small to crawl through, offering not light, but a mocking, silver-gilt square of the night sky.
Lorena was a broken heap in the center of this void.
Her back felt as if it were on fire, a sea of raw, agonizing pain from the fifty lashes. Every breath was a fresh torment, her ribs aching, her skin screaming. She had been thrown in here hours ago, her body still bleeding, with nothing. No blanket. No food. No water.
She grunted, a low, animal sound of misery, as she reached a trembling hand in the darkness. Her fingers brushed against a coarse, earthenware jar. Water. They must have left her water.
