“Y-you know who I am?”
He chuckles, more of a scoff. “Oh, I know.” He turns and I see his profile, backlit by the fire. He has long wooden stick in his hand to tend the fire; there are no iron pokers in this room. Nothing he could use to free himself. “You think I don’t hear your sniveling voice every month? You think I don’t smell that disgusting sewer water you call perfume all over my home?” He shoves to his feet and I flinch.
Worse, he notices. Though I cannot see his face clearly, I … sense his amusement.
“I hear the servants talk about you like some goddamned salvation. They all think you’re a saint come to do battle with the Devil himself. Well?” He snaps the chains like a silken train and comes around the massive bed, into the light. “What do you think of him?”
Dark golden strands of hair fall over the face of a fallen angel. Strong jaw, proud nose, dark brows and a hard, twisted mouth. But his eyes… They aren’t what I expected to see. They are empty. Cold. Eyes of a true monster.
Possible points: 8