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They hadn’t chained her to an altar this
time. But to a metal table, set within the
center of the large tent. He’d had them bring
in the comforts of home—or whatever Cairn
might consider home.
A tall chest of drawers stood by one canvas
wall. She doubted it held clothes.
Fenrys lay beside it, head on his front
paws, sleeping. For once, sleeping. Grief laid
heavy on him, dulling his coat, dimming his
bright eyes.
Another table had been placed near the one
on which she lay. A cloth covered three
humped objects on it. Beside the one closest, a
patch of black velvet also had been left out.
For the instruments he’d use on her. The way
a merchant might display his finest jewels.
Two chairs sat facing each other on the
other side of the second table, before the large
brazier full to the brim with crackling logs.