[With his arms unbound, Jezebel can see the hair on Ianchus' arms standing up, the way his hands bend at the wrists, his fingers hooked into claws, the impotent sounds that choke themselves rhythmically out of Ianchus' throat.

He's trying to cry out--it's his usual form of release, but all his nerves and tendons seem to be disconnected, turning him into a vessel only for pain.

He's aware of every second, but they stretch out into what feel like minutes, scorching pins seeming to run through his blood.

Stop, stop.]