CHAPTER FORTY-NINE CHLOE
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHLOE
NOW
When Damon appears beside me with a syringe of God knows what in his hand, I don’t bother fighting.
If it means my mind has a moment of peace, he can inject me with fucking cyanide if he wants. It doesn’t matter anyway.
Death would be a kinder fate than the cellar.
I watch as the needle pierces my skin, the sting of pain barely registering as he pushes whatever it is into my veins.
Unfortunately for me, I doubt whatever it is will kill me. That would be too easy, and they wouldn’t get the answers they think they’ll get from me.
Little do they know I probably know less than they do about Kingston’s whereabouts. I haven’t heard from him in almost ten years, and I’m not even sure the cell number I have for him is still active.
“Sleep now, Duchess. Enjoy the rest while you can.”
Damon’s cruel eyes are the last thing I see as I fall into what will probably be my last peaceful sleep before death comes for me.
Apounding ache between my eyes drags me back to the land of the living, and I groan internally at the realization that I am in fact not dead.
It takes longer than I would like to take stock of my body, allowing my mind to focus on each part for long seconds, but as far as I can tell, I’m unharmed.
Other than the splitting headache obviously.
Once I’m satisfied that no one touched me while I was unconscious, I move on to working out where I am.
I expected to wake up tied to a chair, but instead I’m on my side, my body cushioned by a thin mattress.
The zip ties are gone, but there’s a heavy weight against my ankle that I know, without opening my eyes, is some kind of chain.
Next, I take long minutes to listen. Although my fate is inevitable, I’d rather delay the pain for as long as I can.
The Lombardis are known for their brutal torture tactics, and whatever they plan to do with me before they kill me will make me wish for death.
Apart from my own heartbeat and water dripping in the distance, there’s perfect quiet, which is as comforting as it is terrifying.
I finally manage to pry my eyes open and blink a few times as the room I’m in comes into focus. The damp bricks a few inches from my face are too familiar, and I find myself pressing my eyes closed again to warn away a fresh wave of tears.
I’m already dehydrated. I can’t afford to lose any more water from my body, but logic doesn’t stop them from falling.
Hopelessness washes over me, and I welcome it. At least without hope, I won’t be disappointed when no one comes to save me.
I suck in a stuttered breath and turn onto my other side. Metal chains clink against my ankle, another reminder of what lies ahead, but once again I’m surprised when I pry my eyes open.
And not in a bad way.
Because I’m not in the room I was in when my parents were brutally murdered in front of me.
I’m in one of the cells, and whereas I remember them being filthy and dark, this one is clean.
A toilet sits in the corner with a tiny basin beside it.
It’s not much, but at least I won’t have to pee in a corner or die of dehydration.
So that’s something, I guess.
The rest of the space is bare besides the mattress beneath me, and I guess I should just be grateful I’m not being held in the same room I watched my parents die in.
Although I have little doubt I’ll find myself in there at some point before my own inevitable death.
The cruelty is part of the torture. They want their victims to hurt emotionally as well as physically.
The drugs running through my veins have my limbs as heavy as lead, and while I’m desperate for water, I can’t bring myself to move.
Instead, I allow unconsciousness to pull me under. Because the torture will start soon and rest will be but a distant memory.