I don’t mind this one much. As torture goes, his is predictable.
A handful of bruises, another broken bone. Could a single bone break in more than one place? I’m running out of things to hurt, but I’m sure he’ll find something.
The sound of footsteps on metal stairs makes me tense. My body remembers something worse than pain. That’s all Troll can dish out, but the other man messes with my mind.
Javier Markam strolls into view, his suit impeccable, his smile deceptively charming.
I want to rip his throat out. My fists tighten, wrists straining against the bonds holding me here.
He laughs in a way that is sickeningly pleasant. “Good evening, Mr. Costas. I see you’re eager to get started.” His smile fades, his eyes as flat as a snake. “I am too.”
“Can’t wait to put your hands on me again,” I manage, though the memory of yesterday’s torture is still fresh enough to make me vomit. Luckily I haven’t had anything to eat in days.
His expression darkens. “I have a new game for us to play.”
Are you flirting with me? I can’t force out a comeback, though. Not with my entire body twisting, fighting. It’s determined to survive even though I know I have no hope.
No, my best chance is with Troll over there. If he gets careless, hits a little too hard, I won’t wake up.
That’s the best case scenario for me.
“Fill up the bucket,” Markam says.
Both of them disappear from view, and there’s that water again. So peaceful. So horrific.
Then Markam is back, holding up a wet washcloth. “Do you know what this is?”
I want to tell him exactly where he can shove that, but my throat is too tight to speak. I’m guessing I know what’s coming, and the thought has me sucking in a deep breath. Shit.
He smiles a little. “Where’s Clara?”
I hate that I’m trembling, but this is going to be bad. Fear. He gets into my mind. “Have you checked up your ass?”
That terrible smile is the last thing I see before the wet cloth slaps my face. One second. Two. That’s how long it takes for the air in my lungs to get used up, for my body to exhale and reach for me. Except there’s no more air, nothing but wetness—and it feels like I’m drowning. Every muscle fights, but I barely move at all. I only manage to use up more of my oxygen, to drown faster.
Then the cloth is gone, and I suck in air so sharp it slices me up inside.
I’m panting, staring at Javier with a promise to kill him. I know better than to think I’ll actually get to, but I swear on everything I believe that if I get the chance, I’ll do it. And I’ll make it slow.
“Where’s Honor?”
“Fuck you.”
The cloth is back on me, and I count. That was ten, and this is nine. It helps sometimes, counting.
Then my body fights again, and I forget everything. Forget numbers, forget anger. All I know is a bone-deep fear, the instinct that kept humans alive for thousands of years. Survival, except this doesn’t feel like survival. It feels like death.
The cloth disappears, and I choke on air.
“Tell me where they went.”
It’s a relief that they never told me. There are times I’m so delirious from the pain, I can’t be sure what I’ve said out loud. There are times I’ve actually seen Clara in this room like a damned mirage. But I can never give away her location. I don’t know where she is.
The cloth is more wet this time, and water fills my mouth, my nose, before I can take another breath. I’m fighting from the first moment. This is eight, I think. Fucking eight.
He’s looming over me again. “You’re only making this harder on yourself. We’re going to find them, and then what use will you be? Tell me now, and I’ll show mercy.”
There is one sweet thing about this torture—while this happens, I know they haven’t found Clara yet. She’s safe as long as I’m in pain. I want it to go on forever.