Chapter 2

I hadn't even wiped the cold wine from my face when the basement's door was kicked open again.

Two bodyguards dragged me out like dead weight, hauling me all the way to the sterile medical suite on the top floor.

The moment they threw me onto the carpet, blinding lights seared my eyes.

Isabella was leaning against the sofa, whimpering softly. On her pale arm was a scratch about two inches long—merely a surface wound from broken glass, the blood already congealed.

And Caspian knelt beside her, cradling her hand with infinite care, his eyes brimming with tenderness I'd never seen before.

"Caspian, it hurts so much..." Isabella nestled into his chest. "The doctor said it'll definitely scar when I wear sleeveless gowns."

"There won't be a scar. I promise." Caspian kissed her forehead gently.

Then he rose, his gaze sweeping over me on the carpet. The warmth in his eyes evaporated instantly, replaced by ice.

"How much skin do you need?" he asked the doctor coldly.

"Two... two square inches will suffice, Mr. Lucchese."

"Take it from her thigh. Now." He pointed at me, his tone as casual as ordering coffee.

I stared at him in disbelief, my chest tightening: "Over a scratch? You're going to carve me up for a fucking scratch?"

"Shut up, Aria." He looked down at me from above. "Your skin heals in hours. She can't have a single mark on her."

I tried to push myself up but pulled at my right arm. The wine-soaked sleeve slipped, revealing the needle marks from the brutal blood draw hours earlier.

That patch of skin hadn't healed instantly like usual.

Because my life force was completely depleted, the edges around the puncture showed a deathly inflamed red, and a drop of dark blood was slowly seeping from the festering hole.

Caspian's gaze landed on that needle mark.

His movements froze abruptly, his brow furrowing hard. I caught a flicker of doubt in his eyes.

He knew that as a monster, my wounds typically healed within minutes.

"My healing ability... is gone." I looked straight at him, my voice impossibly hoarse. "Caspian, if you cut my skin this time, it will never grow back."

The air fell into deathly silence.

Then Isabella suddenly let out a pained cry from the sofa.

That sound instantly shattered all of Caspian's hesitation. The doubt in his eyes transformed into pure disgust.

"You reopened your own wound just to get out of this?" He crossed the room in two strides and drove his boot into my shoulder, grinding me into the floor. "Aria, you make me sick."

He turned to the doctor without a moment's hesitation: "Do it. Don't waste my time."

"Sir, no anesthesia?" The doctor held the scalpel, his hand trembling as he looked at me in the mixed pool of blood and wine.

"Anesthesia?" Caspian laughed coldly. "Anesthetics affect skin cell viability. She's a monster. She doesn't feel pain. Just cut."

The doctor swallowed, and the sharp blade pressed directly against my thigh.

No sterilization, no preparation. When the cold blade sliced through my flesh, peeling away my skin, the agony of being butchered alive shot through my spine.

I convulsed in pain, biting my lip hard. Only when my mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood did I force the scream back down.

Blood gushed out instantly, staining the pristine white carpet crimson.

And my husband stood one step away. He blocked Isabella's view with his tall frame, softly comforting her with "don't look, it's dirty," while coldly watching me nearly pass out in the pool of blood.

A whole piece of skin with flesh attached was torn away.

I collapsed on the carpet like rotten pulp, my breathing barely detectable.

I truly felt no healing power anymore—only life force flowing out through that bloody crater, along with my dignity, into the drain.

The doctor carried the skin to the next room to prepare for grafting. Caspian turned toward the bathroom to wash the blood spatter from his cuffs.

Only Isabella and I remained in the room.

She rose leisurely from the sofa and walked over to me. Where was any trace of the weakness and pain from moments ago?

She nudged my mangled leg with her stiletto, then bent down, giggling.

"So even when a monster like you has her flesh carved out alive, you bleed this much."

My unfocused pupils locked onto her.

"Want to know how I really got this?" She tilted her head, smirking. "That vase was ugly. So I smashed it and did this myself."

She leaned closer, lowering her voice: "I just wanted to see if he'd be willing to flay you for one scratch on me."

"And as you saw, even if you're actually dying, you're still not worth a single tear I shed from pain in his eyes."

The bathroom doorknob clicked softly.

Isabella instantly wiped the smile from her face, crying out in alarm, stumbling backward as if frightened by me.

Caspian rushed out, immediately shielding her in his arms, staring at me defensively. He didn't even glance down at me on the floor, barely conscious.

"Drag this trash back to the basement." He ordered his men coldly as they entered.

As the door closed, I weakly shut my eyes.

The bloody crater in my leg was still bleeding. The needle mark on my right arm continued to fester.

He'd seen everything. He just didn't care.