Claimed by the vampire prince

Chapter 263: Chapter 263: Happy New Year to everyone!

Jorrit had proven to be far more stubborn than Ragnar had initially given him credit for. Very little had managed to faze the man so far, not the knife driven clean through his thigh, not the slow, methodical removal of his fingernails, nor any of the other carefully administered torments Ragnar had subjected him to.

None of it had brought Ragnar any closer to extracting a full confession.

At first, he had been certain that pain would loosen the envoy’s tongue, that suffering would pry open whatever secrets Jorrit held regarding Narfor and the elaborate network he served. That assumption, however, had been a miscalculation. Pain alone had only hardened the man’s resolve.

And worse still, Ragnar had wasted precious time pursuing that avenue when his attention should have been focused elsewhere.

So he chose a different route.

Torture, after all, was not the only way to break a man.

It had been just over a week since Ragnar had last paid Jorrit a personal visit in his dank cell. By now, every wound Ragnar had inflicted would have healed as though they had never existed at all. The prolonged absence was not due to a loss of interest, far from it. Ragnar’s focus had merely been diverted toward an oversight he had been remiss to consider at the beginning.

That oversight now walked at his side.

Ragnar was not alone when he returned to Jorrit’s cell. A small figure followed closely behind him, keeping pace with hesitant steps, frightful as he entered the cell the moment the door was unlocked. freewebnøvel.coɱ

Jorrit was still bound to the chair with heavy chains, his head slumped to one side. Even though Ragnar himself had not entered the cell in nearly a week, the guards had not been idle. From the looks of him, they had taken liberties of their own.

His skin had taken on a pale, sickly pallor, drained of its former vitality. The sharpness that once defined his features was dulled now, his body seemingly leeched of strength. He looked weakened.

Worse than that, he looked pitiful.

The rapid mending of his wounds had only depleted his energy reserves faster, leaving him hollowed out from the inside.

He had not been fed properly, certainly not in the manner he would have been accustomed to before his capture. Ragnar had seen to that personally. Just enough blood to keep him alive. Just enough so he wouldn’t die but never enough to restore him.

A slow, deliberate starvation.

The sound of the cell door closing echoed through the chamber, and Jorrit stirred. His head lifted with visible effort as he registered Ragnar’s presence, his eyes struggling to focus. He said nothing. Even breathing seemed to tax him.

"Kylo," Ragnar said calmly, his voice cutting through the silence, "I brought you a special guest."

As if summoned by the words, a small boy stepped out from behind him.

The child could not have been older than five. He was small for his age, with rosy cheeks and hair the same mousy brown as the man bound before them. His eyes were also identical to Jorrit’s.

Jorrit’s breath hitched the moment his gaze landed on the boy. It grew frantic, shallow, his chest heaving as his eyes widened in horror.

His mouth fell open.

"H–how?" he rasped. "No... please. No."

Ragnar tilted his head in feigned confusion, false concern crossing his features.

"What’s the matter?" he asked mildly. "Do you not like my surprise?" A thread of something insidious coiled beneath his tone.

"No. You couldn’t have— How?" Jorrit shook his head, as though the movement might erase the sight before him.

"Jorrit may be a ghost," Ragnar said coolly, "but Kylo Elsher is not. He is very much alive and he has people he cares deeply for. People who would mourn you when you die."

"Papa?" the boy called softly. He took a hesitant step forward, frowning as his gaze lingered on the chains biting into his father’s skin. He didn’t fully understand what he was seeing but he understood enough to know that something was terribly wrong.

Jorrit’s head snapped up, his glare burning through Ragnar as tears brimmed in his eyes.

"You are a monster," he hissed. "Leave my son out of this. He has done nothing to you. Your quarrel is with me and you already have me at your mercy."

"My quarrel is with Narfor," Ragnar replied, his voice sharpening, " The man who keeps sending assassins after my wife. Since he isn’t here, you will have to suffice. As will your son." The words tasted bitter, but he did not take them back.

He kept his expression impenetrable, revealing nothing. He had no intention of harming the child but Jorrit did not know that and Ragnar wanted the man to think him cruel and wicked enough to do it.

The boy took another step forward. Then another. When he reached his father, he wrapped his small arms around him as best he could, pressing his cheek against Jorrit’s chest.

The chains prevented a proper embrace, but Jorrit leaned into it all the same.

Ragnar watched the scene with detached indifference.

It stirred no sympathy within him, only the same cold contempt he felt every time he looked at Jorrit. This man had played a role in the attempts on Circe’s life. He had aided Narfor, protected him, and stubbornly refused to give away a single useful information. That would end now.

The last failed attempt to extract the truth had made one thing painfully clear: if Ragnar continued down the same path, he would make no progress at all.

Something else had to be done. And it had to be done quickly.

Which was why he had sent spies to uncover everything they could about Kylo Elsher, the only remaining link he had to Narfor.

The search had dragged on for days and proved largely useless, until his men finally uncovered what Kylo had gone to great lengths to keep hidden from the world. A young boy. Kylo had concealed the child with meticulous care, and for good reason. He had clearly feared that someone with ill intent would discover the boy’s existence and use him as leverage.

Just as Ragnar now intended to do.

"Don’t hurt him. He’s only a child," Jorrit pleaded hoarsely. The confident man Ragnar had first encountered over a week ago was long gone, stripped away by pain and fear. In his place stood a broken father, bound in chains, desperate and frantic as he tried to shield his son from Ragnar’s wrath.

"My wife has a brother who is not much older than your son," Ragnar said. His voice was calm, almost conversational, which made his words all the more frightening. "She loves him dearly and treats him as her own child. Had one of your assassins succeeded, you would have taken the only family he had left." He stepped closer. "And you would have lived with that knowledge without remorse. You would have been content to wound him beyond repair for your master."

Ragnar’s gaze hardened. "Knowing this, tell me, why should I pity you?"

His hand drifted slowly to the sword at his hip, fingers curling around the pommel. The sound of the sword being pulled from its scabbard rang out menacingly in the cell. He took a deliberate step forward, the tip of the sword angling downward.

"Those who willingly cause misery should be forced to taste it," Ragnar continued, his voice low and venomous. "Only then do they truly understand what they inflict upon others. You and your master tried to destroy that which is precious to me." His eyes flicked to the boy. "So now, I will do the same to you."

At the sound of the sword being unsheathed, the boy let out a small, frightened noise. His body trembled violently as he clung to his father, burying his face against Jorrit’s chest as though that alone could shield him from what was coming.

"Please," Jorrit choked. "Please don’t." He began to struggle against his restraints, chains rattling and clinking loudly as he thrashed uselessly. "Kill me. Kill me right here if you must. Just don’t touch him."

"And why should I do that?" Ragnar asked, a cruel sneer curling his lips. "It would utterly defeat the purpose of bringing you here in the first place." He tilted his head slightly, studying Jorrit with detached interest.

"Look at you, begging for death, exactly as I said you would." Ragnar continued, lifting the sword higher, "You have been here for two weeks, and in all that time, the man you are sacrificing yourself for has done nothing to save you. Narfor is content to let you suffer. He will leave you to rot, to be broken, while he remains untouched." He held Jorrit’s gaze. "Tell me does that loyalty still feel worthwhile?"

He raised the sword and brought it down swiftly.

The air in the cell seemed to freeze.

"Wait! Anything! I will give you anything!" Jorrit exclaimed. fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm

The blade halted mere inches from the boy, its cold edge hovering close enough to make the child cry out in terror.

Jorrit’s breathing came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving violently. His son had begun to sob openly now, small shoulders shaking as he clutched his father tighter, sensing with awful clarity just how close he had come to death.

Jorrit swallowed hard, tears streaking down his face. His voice broke as he spoke.

"Let him go," he whispered. "Let my son go... and I will give you everything you want."