20. Eva
EVA
Martin doesn't come in shouting.
That's how I know this is worse.
He straps my wrists down with practiced efficiency. The leather bites into skin that's still tender from last time.
I brace for yelling.
For rage.
For violence.
It never comes.
Instead, he checks each restraint like he's preparing equipment for a routine job.
“Interesting week,” he says.
I swallow hard and keep my mouth shut.
He secures my ankles with the same calm precision.
No hurry.
No emotion.
“I leave for a few days,” he continues, sounding almost amused, “and suddenly my house gets... creative.”
My stomach drops.
He knows.
I don't know how, but he knows.
Martin steps closer.
“I noticed something.”
His fingers hover near one of Maya's stitches.
Then he presses.
Pain shoots through my side.
“You've been healing faster than I expected.”
I stare straight ahead.
“Who helped you?”
His voice is sharper this time.
Still calm.
Still controlled.
I don't answer.
The silence stretches.
Martin hums under his breath as none of this bothers him.
“Greta has always had a soft spot for strays,” he says.
He adjusts one of the restraints.
“And Lucian...”
A quiet sigh escapes him.
“Lucian still thinks the world can be kind.”
His hand stills.
“And Hudson.”
That name hits me differently.
Martin studies my face.
Looking for a reaction.
Looking for proof.
“You spent time outside your room,” he says.
“Kitchen. Hallways. Other rooms.”
I keep my expression blank.
“And no one stopped you.”
A long moment passes.
He straightens slowly.
“Good.”
His mouth twists a little, but it isn’t a smile.
It’s something much colder.
“I was curious about the loyalties in my own house.”
The realization hits me.
This was never about me.
It was about them.
“Feeling proud of yourself?” I ask.
Martin ignores the question.
He picks up a scalpel and turns it slowly between his fingers.
“Compassion is a liability in our world.”
The blade catches the light.
“Now I know exactly who still has it.”
A cold knot forms in my stomach.
“So what now? You punish everyone who failed?”
His head snaps toward me.
Before I can react, he yanks one of the restraints.
Pain shoots through my shoulder.
“Careful,” he says quietly. “You're already on thin ice.”
Over the past week, I learned something important about this house.
There are cameras everywhere outside.
But none inside.
Except for the one Martin uses to record our torture sessions.
That means no one saw me walking around with Lucian all week.
No one saw Maya helping me either.
The guards were my only worry, but it looks like Hudson took care of them too.
Then the scalpel moves.
Fast.
Pain tears through me as he slices across one of the healing wounds, breaking the stitches.
I suck in a sharp breath and clamp my teeth together.
Martin watches my face.
Waiting.
Studying.
“Still not talking?”
I stare back at him.
He sets the scalpel aside and picks up the branding iron, considering before putting it down.
“Your father isn't cooperating.”
His tone is almost bored.
“Neither are you.”
I force myself to breathe.
“I told you. He's not coming.”
Martin ignores that.
“Do you know how careful I’ve been with you?” he asks.
Nausea rolls through me.
He steps closer and looks over the bruises and cuts covering my body.
Not with concern.
With evaluation.
Like he's inspecting property.
“Pain heals,” he says. “Cuts. Bruises. Broken bones.”
His fingers brush lightly over my shoulder.
“A body can survive quite a lot before it stops being useful.”
My throat goes dry.
“I kept everything survivable,” he says. “Everything temporary.”
His expression hardens.
“But lately, I've started to wonder if you're worth the effort.”
The words settle heavily in the room.
“Because your father was supposed to negotiate.”
His voice cracks on that word.
“But instead,” he says softly, “he insulted me.”
“I told you,” I say through uneven breaths. “He doesn’t care about me.”
The next cut is deeper.
Pain tears through me.
My body jerks against the restraints.
Martin studies me through narrowed eyes.
“I do not understand it,” he says.
His voice is calm again.
“What kind of father leaves his daughter to this?”
I force myself to meet his gaze.
“The kind who doesn't value women.”
The words taste bitter.
“If I were a son, if I were actually in line to lead the Saints, he would've burned this place to the ground already.”
“That’s not how this works,” Martin snaps suddenly.
For the first time tonight, real emotion shows on his face.
“Not in my house.”
The room falls silent.
Then he sets the scalpel aside.
And reaches for the branding iron.
Terror floods my veins.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whisper.
He lights the butane torch.
A soft hiss fills the room as the flame catches.
“This,” he says, holding the branding iron over the heat, “is what happens when people forget their place.”
“You think this will make him cooperate?” Panic creeps into my voice. “It won't.”
”Maybe not.”
The metal begins to glow.
“But it’ll make a point.”
Then he presses the branding iron into my shoulder.
A raw, agonized scream tears out of me as the smell of burning flesh fills the room.
I gag instantly, vomiting on my shoulder and hair while my body convulses against the restraints.
Martin watches without flinching.
“I’m angry right now, Miss Sorenson,” He says as I choke and heave on the table. “I sent your father videos. Demands. Deadlines.”
His jaw tightens.
“And he answered with one word. No.”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I knew my father wouldn’t storm the mansion to save me.
But I never imagined this.
No negotiation.
No stalling.
No attempt.
Just no.
Martin swears viciously under his breath before grabbing a hammer from the tray.
Something unstable shifts behind his eyes.
“I’ve been patient,” he says after a moment. “I denied myself what I wanted because this was supposed to be business.”
The hammer taps lightly against his palm.
“I held back because I expected cooperation.”
My stomach twists.
Then I realize what’s happening.
The camera isn’t here.
He never set it up.
A cold feeling sweeps through me.
This isn’t about leverage anymore.
Now it’s personal.
“Hudson already told me I was going to die anyway,” I say through shaking breaths. “You never planned to let me go. You planned to double-cross my father from the start.”
Martin smiles at me, and it sends a chill down my spine.
Then he lifts the hammer.
The first strike lands on my injured hand.
Blinding pain shoots through my arm.
A broken cry tears out of me.
The second strike hits my ribs hard enough to force air from my lungs.
Then my shoulder.
Each hit brings fresh waves of pain through my body.
He lights the torch again and heats the branding iron.
The hot metal slams into the top of my foot, where the skin is thin, and the bone sits close to the surface.
I scream until my throat burns, then throw up again while he keeps going.
Now he’s lost control.
He looks wild, almost possessed.
“The Sorenson line ends here,” he mutters almost to himself as the blade returns, slicing too fast and carelessly now.
“You’re a fucking animal,” I choke out.
Martin laughs softly.
“Oh?”
“I’m glad he said no,” I whisper through blood and tears. “Because…fuck you.”
His grin turns feral.
“Ah,” he says. “I forgot I wanted that too.”
Then he unbuckles his belt and unbuttons his pants.
For one terrible second, my brain refuses to process what I see.
He reaches inside his underwear, giving himself a few tugs, pushing free of his bottoms.
Real fear hits me all at once.
“No,” I gasp as he climbs onto the table. “No?—”
He grabs for my underwear while one hand closes around my throat.
I thrash against the restraints, wrists and ankles burning raw.
“Help!” I scream.
For anyone.
For everyone.
But nobody comes.
His grip tightens.
My screams die in my throat.
Still, I fight.
But he's stronger.
“You should’ve been grateful I was patient with you,” he mutters against my skin.
He squeezes harder.
Air disappears.
I can’t breathe. My ears ring and my vision blurs at the edges.
The truth hits me, clear and terrifying.
I am going to die.
I feel myself slipping away, and I think I hear shouting.
A crash.
Then another voice.
The weight on top of me vanishes suddenly.
The pressure around my throat disappears.
Air rushes painfully back into my lungs, but it’s too late. I’m too far gone.
I can’t see.
Can’t focus.
The world falls apart into pieces of sound and light.
My final thought barely feels coherent.
Hope and fear blend together.
Is it my father?
Baron?
Then everything goes dark.