Chapter 14
Nash
“Wash,” the guy snaps as his hand shoves at my back.
My first instinct is to spin on him and punch him in the throat for having the fucking gall to disrespect me, but I know better.
Arguing with the man instead of stepping into the shower basin would be incredibly ignorant when I need a fucking shower more than I need my next meal, which is saying a lot because these people are slowly fucking starving me to death.
I don’t complain about the lack of soap. Being able to run my own hands over my skin is much better than the alternative of them turning that fucking water hose on me again. The water never really gets as hot as I’d like, but it warms enough to take the chill right out of the center of me.
I realized yesterday that the injections they’ve been giving me are antibiotics, and it pissed me off more than being saved should. It only prolongs the abuse and torture I have to suffer. I’m to the point of wanting to die, especially after what was asked of me yesterday.
I look over at the guard standing in the doorway.
I heard Pirro refer to him as Rune. The man was never a part of the poker games so I can’t be sure if that’s his name or not.
He looks bored, like he’s got better things to do.
He’s never been outwardly mean, but he’s no less a piece of shit for it either.
After swiping at my skin and trying to get as clean as one can with only water, I start to catalog my injuries, not planning to get out until I’m told to do so.
The cut on my ribs doesn’t seem as infected as it was a couple of days ago, and the way it’s starting to heal around the edges pisses me off.
Pirro knows better. He called my bluff. I don’t know how he knew I was willing to die, but he didn’t even blink when shifting gears to threaten her.
I haven’t been able to keep the woman out of my head. When I passed out from exhaustion, she still managed to infiltrate my dreams.
My nightmares were worse than the reality we faced together. She begged me to hurt her, to cut her, to bruise her and leave scars behind. I complied, my hand shaking as I swiped the blade across her skin. It was the evil laugh that bubbled from my throat that finally had the power to wake me up.
I cut my eyes to Rune once again before checking the gash I can feel pulling against the stitches with every step I take.
The threads she wove through my skin seem to be holding.
I wonder if he faces his daily tasks with the same level of indifference when he’s having to supervise the women when they shower?
Somehow, I doubt it.
I picture pulling the shower head from the wall and beating him to a bloody mess with it, but I know I can’t. They would for sure kill me then, and that would mean never being able to lay eyes on her again.
Rune looks down at his watch before lifting his eyes to me.
“Only got a minute left, my man.”
My man.
I could slit his throat and piss down his neck with that “my man” bullshit.
I turn off the water, reaching for the thin fabric meant to be a bath towel.
He doesn’t watch me, and I see the control in it, the way he isn’t worried about me at all.
He’s not afraid of me, or maybe he’s just itching for his own death.
Is he someone trapped here like the rest of us?
What could someone possibly say or threaten to make a person act the exact way they’re expected even when it goes against everything they believe.
Before yesterday, I would’ve argued that there was nothing, but Pirro picked at the scab quite effectively, didn’t he?
I try to block out the grunts and sounds of people fucking.
I try to ignore the pleas for help, knowing what it means for the women in the other rooms. This entire operation is just one sick fucking perversion after another, and the sincerely fucked-up part of it is that people are paying to participate.
I know from experience that where there’s a demand for something, there are always those that will provide it, no matter the level of depravity.
It’s why I didn’t doubt Pirro yesterday when he threatened to turn the video into a snuff film.
I can only imagine the money something like that would draw.
I hate Angel for sending me here. I hate that he didn’t force me to listen when he was lining out the job. I hate myself even more for letting my success rate on missions cloud my ability to take him seriously when he tried.
If I had a glance into my future, even a second of time to know this is where I’d end up, I would have forced myself to take a much different trajectory in life.
I would’ve shoved down those feelings of anger I got every time someone tried to tell me what to do.
I would’ve somehow accepted that I’d have a boss whose job it was to give me direction, or I would have chosen a field that put me in the position of being high man on the ladder.
I might have tried my hand at being a cop rather than being a vigilante. I would’ve attempted to obey the laws rather than thumbing my nose at them.
There’s no way to change it now, so there’s no point in wasting time on it.
Rune pushes away from the wall as I step closer, walking in front of me, leading the way rather than at my back. It lessens my chance of getting the jump on him.
I freeze in my tracks when he opens the door to the left rather than the one to the right that leads to the cell they’ve been holding me in.
Despite his uncanny ability to look bored, he doesn’t hesitate to pull his gun out and point it at my head when I don’t enter the room.
I’ve suffered so fucking much in there, that death is a better choice.
“He’ll kill her, too,” he mutters, the threat flat but somehow ringing true at the same time.
My feet move without taking an order from my brain, and I hate every single one of them for having something to force me into action with.
There’s a man in the room I’ve never seen before, but he has a stethoscope around his neck rather than a knife or some other weapon in his hand.
“He’s going to check your wounds,” Rune says. I know it’s sort of a peace offering because the man doesn’t have to explain shit to me and we both know it.
The doctor walks around me, his head shaking as his eyes skate over my injuries.
“I’ll give it to him, he really knows where to cut to cause the most pain.”
The “he” he’s referring to has to be Pirro.
Rune doesn’t acknowledge the doctor’s words.
“The antibiotics seem to be working. We’ll keep him on the same regimen for the next couple of days.”
I grind my teeth together as he walks to a black bag on the table against the far wall. The man prepares two needles instead of one.
“What’s the other one?” I growl when he turns back around with one in each hand.
I step forward, evaluating if I’ll be able to snap his neck before Rune can put a bullet in me, but the sound of him pulling the hammer back makes me freeze.
The threat to her is real, and the thought of having to witness her death over and over in my own purgatory is the only thing that makes me stand there as the doctor steps up, jabbing each of my fucking arms with the needles simultaneously.
I hiss, the fucking audacity of this man irritating me more than the fucking prick of the needles.
“What was the second one for?” I ask again when he takes a step back.
He holds up one needle, looking at the tip of it. “This was your antibiotics.”
I narrow my eyes at him, wondering if he’s offering his medical services for free in exchange for what this place has to offer him in terms of fulfilling his fucking perverted fantasies.
“This one?” I can’t help but attempt to focus on the tip of it. “This is the one that’s going to knock you on your ass.”
It’s as if his words have the power to activate the shit he just pumped into my body. My legs weaken, but there’s nothing I can do to stop the forward momentum of my body. I watch, wondering how much it’s going to hurt as the man steps to the side and just watches as I crumple to the floor.