I gasp as I fall to the ground, clutching my head with my hands, attempting to hold in the sobs.

"Four."

The whip flies, biting my back like a viper.

"Stand up," my father orders from the other side of the room.

I pant, my back bent and my head pressed into the floor. Blood trickles down my bare back. Droplets land on the ground. I shake my head, the top of my scalp grinding into the black cement.

"Stand up now or your lashes are doubled."

Pressing my palms onto the ground, I force myself up, my body protesting with cracks.

"Five."

My back arches at the sound of the crack, and the whip slaps my right shoulder. I stumble forward, pushing myself against the wall for support and to cover the exposed front of me.

"Six."

The whip lands against the middle of my back like thorns being pressed into me.

"Seven."

"Please, please, please." I scream as it catches me right at the base of my neck. My knees buckle, and I collapse to the floor.

"Eight."

The whip doesn't come.

"McCall, now."

"I can't watch this," Gale mutters. A door clicks shut.

"Do you want her standing, Your Majesty?" the woman with the whip asks.

"Raksana, get up now."

I wipe my tears on the rough wall also made out of cement. "I can't."

"Fifteen if I have to help you up."

No. I can't. Can't I go home? Can't I fall in my bed and imagine my whole life's been one big dream? I grip at the wall, my hands shaking. Trying to dig my nails into the wall, I slice the tips open. I continue to grip, but I sink farther down.

"Very well." Feet pound against the ground, and a hand squeezes the back of my neck, rubbing into one of the lash marks. The side of my face is dragged against the wall as I'm yanked upward. My face feels like sandpaper is being rubbed against it only a thousand times worse.

Once I'm on my feet my father presses the side of my face into the wall, before releasing my neck.

"Now, eight."

I stumble against the wall pressing my face harder against it as the whip lands on a spot it's already familiar with.

"Nine."

The whip whines as it streams through the air.

"Ten, eleven, twelve."

My body feels as if I've been plunged into fire. Three more. Just three more.

"Thirteen, fourteen."

The whip is a paint brush, and my back its canvas. The flogger is the artist, and my father is the director. I'm the easel forced to bear the strain.

One more. . .

"Fifteen."

My fingers open as the whip bites into my back, and I sink to the floor, my cheek dragging against the stone. It's over.

"Sixteen."

The whip lands on my cheek just below my eye. I scream, the pain worse than the strokes to my back.

"That's enough, McCall. You are excused."

I hear two sets of footsteps and a door closing. I think I'm alone. I maneuver to my stomach, my back flaming with each flex. I rest my face on my nose--one side of my face is torn and scraped, while the other is sliced open.

Tears fall to the ground I'm pressed against. Sixteen was enough. I don't know how anyone can take more.

I hear the door open and footsteps rushing toward me.

"Raksana?" Gale. "You look terrible. I'm so sorry. You know I couldn't have done anything." He places a hand on my head and strokes my hair. "Do you want me to take you to your room?"

"No, please. Don't move me."

"I brought stuff to tend to them. Can you handle it?"

I give a rough laugh. "Do I look like it?"

He chuckles. "Aww, you can handle anything."

I hiss at what feels like acid being poured over my wounds.

"Aren't you used to this by now?"

"To be honest you never get used to it. And besides the most he'd order me to were four."

"I'm sorry I couldn't do anything but watch. I couldn't even stay the whole time." He continues to pour the liquid into my wounds.

I hiss again. "Are you almost done?" The ground is cool against my cheek.

"With cleaning. I still have to bandage them. And I haven't even seen your face."

"What about cryro-surgery? Quick and easy."

"He said no."

Of course he did.

"I'm going to have to move you to wrap the bandages."

"Go ahead."

He places his hand on my shoulder and tilts me back. "Why'd you do it?"

"I've done a lot of things, maybe—" I grit my teeth as his finger touches one of the whip marks. ". . . you should be more specific."

"Speak up for him."

"Because I owe him. I still do."

"Well there's nothing you can do now. He's dying in a few hours."

"Thanks for the reminder."

After my back's wrapped up, he helps me sit up. He inhales when he sees my face before cursing. "He had you struck in the face?"

"I don't know if it was meant to land there."

He takes off his shirt and holds it over my head. "Here." He lifts my arms to help me into it, but I cry out in pain.

"Stop," I plead.

"You sure?"

I nod. "Is my face that bad?"

"I can't do much besides just cleaning the one side of your face. But you'll need stitches."

"Well take me to the infirmary."

"Raksana, why do you think I'm in here?"

"Because you care."

"Yes, and our father doesn't. He didn't just say no to surgery. He said no to any doctors helping you."

I duck my head. "He wants me to have these scars for the rest of my life. Can you stitch it?"

"Maybe. But let me start with the other side first." He pours some antiseptic onto a cloth and dabs it on my face. I wince. "You love him, huh?"

"Excuse me?"

"Griffith."

My eyes widen. He's gone crazy. "Love?"

"I don't know why. After all the things he said about you."

"Those weren't true."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

He continues to dab at my face, watching me closely.

"But love? I don't. I literally met him three days ago and have had like four conversations with him."

"But you care about him." He switches to the other side of my face and begins to clean the wound.

"I'm indebted to him."

"Are you going?" He prepares a needle and thread. He means the hanging.

I swallow. "Yes, I can't sit here and watch a clock waiting for the minute to come and pass."

He holds up the needle. "You ready?"

My last chance to save Nate. Soon the final fee will be due.

I nod.