These two assholes keep this up, and Jamie’s going to be busting out of here alone.
First, Lyle and Owen had fun breaking my fingers, which was a special treat since my knuckles hadn’t fully healed after their collision with the wall. Then they had a blast shredding my back with a whip. Now, they’re playing with snips.Outstanding.If they keep snapping at my skin, there won’t be much left of me for noz to stitch together.
I hitch in a hiss when Lyle catches a chunk of my Unholy tattoo. Once. Twice. And again, until a river of red flows down my chest. Goddamn. What’s he trying to do, tear the ink out of my skin?
Probably.
Now look, I can take pain, as this place proved, but I’m not fucking superhuman. I lock my jaw and drag in a ragged breath through my nose as he snags my skin. Again. And again. Until everything around me blurs. But I don’t have to see clearly to know I’m fucked. I clench my jaw and hold in my screams, trying not to dwell on what else is laid out on the table that runs along the far wall. Because I know there’s all sorts of nasty shit on it for them to use on me.
Instead, I listen to the spigot’s steady drip where a hose is coiled in the corner. I glance at the drain a few feet from where I’m chained. It’s for when they have to clean the room after they’re done with us. Some bleach, some water, and it all gets washed away. Another unlucky bastard is brought in, and the torture starts all over again.
An assembly line of agony.
They keep this room stocked with all sorts of toys. Blowtorches. Drills. Hammers. Scalpels... It’s a nasty collection of surgical instruments and carpenter’s tools used to inflict as much pain as possible on those of us brought in for Crane’s amusement.
I’m not a random pick. There’s a method to today’s madness.
Crane rarely gets his hands dirty. He’s an objective observer, the camera his eye in the sky as his henchmen spill our blood all over this room.
He’s making an exception this afternoon
Apparently, the idea of me screwing his wife got under his skin. Now he wants to get under mine.
Literally.
The image of Jamie, grown up and gorgeous, is at the forefront of my mind. The vision of her keeps me from coming undone. Lends me the fortitude I need so I don’t shatter under their tools and beg these bastards to stop hurting me. I can still smell her, sweet and summery. Her taste lingers on my mouth, overpowering the acidy sting of bile and the metallic tang of blood.
But it’s not just her face that gives me strength. Survival means I’ll get the chance to kill her cunt of a husband. And trust that I’ll relish murdering him more than he’ll enjoy torturing me.
“Can I go first?” Owen’s got his hand wrapped around a package of salt.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I’m shaking. Can’t help it.Christ. My muscles seize, and my eyes water in anticipation of what’s about to happen.
“You gonna cry, Atticus?” Lyle taunts.
I wet torn lips with the tip of my tongue and battle back panic. “What’s it like being a fucking coward?”
“I ain’t afraid of you.” Lyle snatches the package from Owen.
“Yeah, you are,” I insist.
“Fuck you.” Lyle steps behind me and slaps the salt on my back, working the granules into my shredded flesh.
Can’t hold back the scream. It rips from my throat in a roar I’m positive imprints itself into the molecular compound of the walls. My head falls forward, my fight gone. No use wasting more energy on these assholes when I know there’s worse pain on the horizon.
And speaking of…
The door groans open. A gust of cologne sweeps in, and I don’t have to lift my head to know who’s joined the party.
Lyle and Owen laugh hysterically, two court jesters whose king has finally arrived. Leather shoes whisper against concrete. I glance to my right and track Crane’s advance as he strides forward. He’s got at least fifteen years on me and is elegant as a motherfucker with his slick hair and expensive gray suit. He’s style and grace to my feral destruction, and I can’t help but wonder for the thousandth time why the hell Jamie—mygoddamn Jamie—married this polished piece of shit.
I understand desperation forces people to take desperate measures, but seriously. This guy? Her situation must have been beyond bad for her to marry him.
“Now, boys, I warned you to go easy on him. We don’t want to kill him.” Then to me, “How’s my favorite pet on this fine afternoon?”
“Never better.” I beam him a bloody smile.
