Chapter 10
Sean
Jace was right. There was more where that waterboarding came from, and shit has only gotten worse from there.
The metal chains are so tight around my wrists that I’m sure my bones are bruising.
I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been hanging from the ceiling.
I’m completely naked, my cock and balls swinging freely between my legs.
The ominous, unspoken threat that I could be castrated floats thickly in the air.
I never would’ve done that to another man, but I’ve certainly implied malintent before.
I’ve been praying to every god and demon above and below that’s what’s happening here.
Although, a lot of things around here have changed in a short time.
I shift on my bare toes to alleviate the ache in my side.
I’m severely dehydrated to the point that my organs throb.
I haven’t been allowed more than three meager cups of water since I’ve been here—and I don’t know how long it’s been—and outside of that one meal Jace brought me, I haven’t been given anything else to eat.
It doesn’t help that I think they’ve got the heat on in this room as I sweat out every last drop of moisture in my body.
Still, I’m alive, and that’s how I need to stay until Louhi can get here. I just hope I have all my…parts when she arrives. She wouldn’t be happy about that.
By the time the metal door swings open, I’ve lost all feeling in my hands. What’s the use in having opposable thumbs if I can’t use them again?
“How’s it hangin’?” Jennings, a guy who used to run patrols, quips. I glare at him in return. He’s always been a dick, but someone I was able to mostly avoid until now.
Jace and Major Thompson enter behind him. Jennings twirls the tactical knife in his hand as he approaches. Stepping up to me, he drags the point of his knife down my limp cock, and I grind my molars. “Damn, Digs, no wonder that girl ran off with you.”
He taps the head of my dick with the cheek of the knife, making me curl my lip. That girl deserves more respect. But I clamp my mouth shut, vowing to deal with him later.
The rules of the game he’s playing are simple: humiliate and incite fear. Keeping my mind clear and focused is the only way to win against psychological warfare.
“Quit playing with his dick,” Thompson barks over his shoulder as he enters the storeroom.
Jennings steps back, subtly rolling his soulless eyes. I glance at Jace, whose gaze gives nothing away. When Thompson reenters the playpen, I drop my head, not wanting to see what’s coming for me.
“You’re up,” the major snaps, and I sense my best friend draw near. Even blind, I could sense his presence; his aura is different from anyone else’s here.
I have no doubt that Jace’s loyalty is being ruthlessly tested. When my vision finally connects with his, I silently order him, do it.
A second later, his fist slams into my stomach, leeching me of oxygen. I cough, keeping my face stony, but flick my gaze back to him, signaling that I can handle this. To anyone else, it might appear as though I’m scowling at Jace. He’ll know better.
It’s easier coming from him anyway. He’s being strategic about where he’s landing his blows. I’m going to be a canvas of black and blue later, but nothing vital will be damaged.
He lands seven more punches: three to my abdomen, one to my ribs, two to my thigh, and one to the face. I’m drenched in sweat by the time he’s finished, and it’s begun to pool on the concrete beneath me.
“Care for a smoke?” Jennings offers Jace casually, who’s turned to face him, but the implication is anything but. My best friend’s rigid posture tells me he’s aware of the danger lurking in the veiled words as much as I am.
Thompson’s dark energy tracks every movement from his spot against the wall, waiting to see how this exchange will play out, likely hoping for the opportunity to string Jace up next to me.
To his credit, Jace doesn’t hesitate, extracting a cigarette from the offered box in Jennings’s hand and pulling out his Zippo to light it.
He takes a drag, and smoke fills the chamber of the playpen as he exhales.
I hope it relaxes him, but I have a feeling he’s going to need something stronger later to cope with what he’s about to do.
When he faces me again, I’m grateful for the mask he wears. I doubt he’s a good enough actor that he could pull this off with a straight face. I couldn’t.
A guttural groan vibrates in my throat the moment the lit cherry makes contact with my sweat-slicked skin as pain permanently brands my upper thigh. The perspiration makes the next three burns excruciating as it trickles into each wound and pools there.
“Fuck you,” I spit at my best friend, hoping that he translates my words as a plea to take me out of my fucking misery. He does; bringing his fist back and letting it fly at my face, handing me a ticket to peaceful unconsciousness.
I haven’t been permitted clothes since I was strung up to be a human punching bag.
It’s all part of the twisted, fucked-up game of Break Sean’s Brain.
After another few days of beatings, burnings, and brutal bullshit, I’m in my cell, waiting to endure my latest round of vile abuse.
What I didn’t know was that the torture would be hand delivered to me this time.
Major Thompson and Jace appear at my cell with several more masked guards carrying a big-ass box between them.
Shit.
Double shit.
Triple shit.
Thompson opens my cell door, and the wooden crate is deposited on the floor. It’s so large that it takes up slightly more than half of the already tiny space in my cell. A guard forces me to my feet and against the wall, lest I end up partially under the box.
Jace approaches, his stony gaze melting for half a beat as we lock eyes. Guilt, forewarning, and sorrow loom there before he schools his expression.
Thompson steps up to his side, and together, they wrestle me into restraints so that my arms are locked behind my back. I’m shoved roughly to my knees. This time, I resist with every measurable ounce of strength I possess.
Jace opens the hinged door on the box, and it doesn’t matter how much I thrash and fight the inevitable, I’m forced inside.
No, fuck no.
They slam the lid shut, and the fateful sound ricochets through the cell, blaring like a bad omen.
The denotative clicking of a lock echoes next, making all the cells in my body go on high alert.
Jace’s heavy gaze briefly meets mine through the small slit over my face—which allows oxygen into this box of misery—before disappearing entirely.
I hear the iron door to my cell locking again, isolating me to the confines.
I’ve never been a fan of small, tight spaces, but this is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I’m a big fucking guy; pushing six-foot-five, built of solid, stacked muscle, so this is five hundred kinds of Hell. Second only to losing Louhi, this is my worst nightmare.
Hours pass, and I feel as though I’ve just been buried under a tonnage of rocks.
At some point, the panic pressing down on me like an anvil morphs into grim terror so menacing that I almost break, almost give in to the tenebrous abyss.
There’s no amount of calming breaths or meditating that will subdue my mind, and the mouth of death takes shape: its lip peeling back to bare its teeth, its jaws threatening to mangle my mind.
Although the physical agony of having my body contorted to fit into this box is extremely uncomfortable—painful even—it has nothing on the psychological aspect.
A small rectangular cutout is my only source of light and air, and there wasn’t much light in the cell to begin with. The darkness and limited oxygen are messing with my over-crowded mind.
I have no way of knowing exactly how much time has passed before someone materializes in my cage, the grating sound of the hinges of my cell door opening reverberating beneath me. At least, I think so, but it could just be my mind conjuring someone.
Unfortunately not a mirage, Major Thompson’s masked face appears through the small slit in my box, and he begins spewing his revulsion like a fire hydrant.
The feeling is mutual, asshole.
I don’t see the small bowl in his hands until he tips it upside down and pours the contents through the hole in my box.
Heavily salted lemon juice rinses my face and chest, settling into the numerous tiny abrasions covering my skin.
I blink it from my burning eyes as I cough and sputter, but the solution is everywhere.
“Some seasoning for the rats’ dinner,” he informs me before disappearing again, the sound of my cell shutting with a clang. My cuts sizzle with acute pain, and I grit my teeth, wondering just how long I’m going to be left here before they kill me, or worse, let the rats do it.
Between the position I’ve been locked in and the metal music roaring through the speakers, it’s truly impossible to fall asleep.
I’ve nearly lost all the fight left in me, too.
My body is weakening, numbness having set in.
I can’t imagine that being cramped in this position for an interminable amount of time is good for me either.
The light in the darkness that is Louhi is beginning to fade into the distance of my subconscious, floating farther away on a windless gale.
I don’t know how long my hope will hang on before it disappears entirely.
My body feels as though it’s abandoning me, leaving me to rot in the wicked hell that my mind has become.
The timer is running out.