The faint, wavering firelight by the door cast the whole room in flickering shades of ocher. The profile of the man leaning against the wall with his head bowed, outlined by the flames, called to mind a mountain peak in the last second of sunset. His straight, sharp lashes moved slightly. The instant he opened his eyes, it was as if a storm had swept through the room.
Consciousness returned. He kept lifting his gaze, then let out a faint inhale. He turned his head and looked at the right side of his collarbone.
He coughed softly twice, tipped his head back, and pressed it tightly against the wall. Reaching up, he fiddled with the iron chain on the collarbone shackle, and a sharp pain shot through his right shoulder, every branch of those dense nerves screaming, but he only blinked.
After a long while, as if he had remembered something, he suddenly smiled. He turned his head, raised his eyes, looked at the bed on the other side, then turned back to look at the firelight. Then, following the iron chain upward, he traced the rough outline of the collarbone shackle with his fingers.
Without question, this was an instrument of torture, not some accessory from punk culture meant to show off individuality. The metal ring, roughly two fingers wide, was completely sealed and pressed tight against the bone of his collarbone, without the slightest gap. There was absolutely no way to pry the iron ring open by any means. The chain and Iron Spike clasp had both been cast as one piece, with no seam anywhere, and likewise could not be opened.
When his fingers found the edge where the collarbone shackle met his skin, they did not stop exploring. Instead, they continued inward. The moment he pushed