12. Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
Footsteps sounded at the far end of the corridor, leading toward the dungeon. Isabella’s voice reached me next, too low to make out the words. Then she laughed, light and genuinely amused, as though whatever she had planned for me was all part of some fucking game.
Damn.
The bitch had returned sooner than I’d hoped.
I’d been counting on Mouse reaching me first. A few more minutes might’ve been enough for another drink, a chance to find out whether she could unlock the restraints, or a clue about the hidden passage behind me.
I hadn’t expected her to trust me enough yet to unlock the cuffs based on nothing more than my good intentions, but anything was better than facing Isabella the way Ciro had left me—blindfolded, dehydrated, and chained to this goddamn chair.
Apparently, God had decided I needed a better view of hell this morning.
Fine.
I’d face it with my back straight and deny her every bit of satisfaction I could. She might hurt me. The pain might make me jolt or drag a grunt from me before I could bite it back. But none of that meant she owned me.
The approaching steps stopped just outside. A key scraped into the lock, followed by the heavy clank of the mechanism releasing. The dungeon door swung open.
They filed in, and the door banged shut behind them.
One of the heavier sounding footsteps stopped several feet in front of me, another moved behind my chair, and the third came close enough that I could hear him breathing through his nose.
Lighter footsteps continued forward until they stopped directly in front of me.
The tip of something cool and smooth pressed under my chin.
I jerked my face away.
“Manners still haven’t improved, I see,” she said.
I kept my head to the side.
“You’ll learn,” she purred, as though she were promising pleasure instead of misery.
Something rigid tapped my shoulder before sliding down my arm and striking my wrist with a sharp slap.
She stepped away from me.
“I brought help for that. Mateo, what happens to stubborn men who refuse to follow my rules?”
“They get corrected, ma’am.” The deep voice came from behind and to my left, carrying the practiced snap of a soldier.
“Mateo keeps my world running when everyone else is too stupid to follow simple instructions.” The toe of her boot tapped against the concrete. “Pedro, are you willing to help teach our guest?”
“Gladly, ma’am,” the man beside my shoulder answered with the lazy satisfaction of someone who enjoyed being close to pain as long as it belonged to someone else.
“And Diego? Whose pleasure comes first?”
A gruff voice answered from ahead and to my right. “Yours, Mistress. Your pleasure is all I desire.”
Jesus Christ.
She laughed softly. “They all have their talents. Mateo understands discipline. Diego understands devotion. And Pedro has a particularly gifted mouth.”
A snort came from one of the men.
“What consenting adults do together is none of my business,” I said. My throat was so dry I could hardly speak. “But whatever this little show is, leave me the fuck out of it.”
Whatever weapon she held whipped across my thigh.
Pain flared through the bruise already there, but I locked my jaw before a sound could escape.
“You misunderstand me, Lachlan. You don’t get to leave yourself out of anything.” Her steps circled the chair. “The only difference between you and my men is that they were more willing to learn. I do enjoy a good challenge, though.”
“Then take up knitting.”
One of the men choked.
“The more disagreeable you are, the more techniques I’ll have the pleasure of testing. Pain. Shame. Pleasure. Fear. I’ll find what motivates you.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
“Mm, don’t worry, I intend to take yours.”
My stomach rolled.
“Today is only an assessment. Ciro wants your face to remain presentable for his little recording. Everything else belongs to me.”
She must’ve noticed something—a change in my breathing, a muscle tensing—because satisfaction had slipped into her voice.
Her amusement didn’t matter. What Mouse heard next did.
Mouse had listened while Ciro interrogated me, and I was certain she was listening again from somewhere behind the walls.
She’d defied him to bring me water because she believed I might help her escape.
Now I needed to show her what kind of man I was.
That pain wouldn’t make me obey and this woman couldn’t strip away my strength.
Mouse wasn’t stupid enough to expect silence from a man being tortured. She needed only proof that I wouldn’t surrender.
If she was going to stake her life on me, I had to give her a reason.
The tip of what I guessed was a crop tapped beneath my chin again.
“Chin up, boy.”
I didn’t move.
The leather struck harder.
“Up, I said.”
I kept my head down.
She snapped her fingers.
Pedro’s hand closed in my hair and wrenched my head back. Pain shot across my scalp and down my neck as the chair creaked beneath the sudden force.
“Remove the blindfold. I want to see those pretty green eyes again.”
He released my hair and worked the knot loose.
The end of the crop traveled down my chest and tapped the fly of my pants.
“Such beautiful emeralds,” she murmured. “All my other boys have dark eyes. I’ll enjoy having your adoring eyes on me once you learn to behave.”
The cloth fell away, and light stabbed through my skull.
White glare washed across my vision. I squeezed my eyes shut, then blinked until shapes began to emerge. The room swam into focus one piece at a time as I turned my head and took in the men around me.
Isabella stood directly in front of me with her black hair slicked into a severe bun. She was decked out in camouflage fatigues and black combat boots.
She’d dressed like a soldier. Too bad she didn’t have the guts to fight like one.
Mateo—the deep voice from behind my left shoulder—stood near a worktable that ran along one wall. He was older than the other two and broad through the chest, with dark clothing that was plain and practical. His hands rested behind his back, and his expression revealed nothing.
Pedro remained beside me. He was short and thickly built, with scars crossing the knuckles of his hands. He looked like a man accustomed to carrying out orders with his fists.
Diego leaned against the wall ahead and to my right, a smug curve to his mouth as though he enjoyed the view far too much.
Isabella scrutinized me and clicked her tongue.
“Look at you. Filthy. Sweaty. Hair matted to your head. You look like a mangy dog someone dragged in off the street.”
“At least the filth on me washes off. Yours bought the clothes on your back. You sell girls to monsters, crawl into Ciro’s bed, and think that your pretend uniform hides the stink.”
Her smile thinned.
“Mateo. Bring me the bucket.”
The man near the worktable moved farther behind me out of sight. Metal scraped the concrete, and then a faucet opened behind me.
Every muscle across my back locked as water rushed into the bucket. The damn thing seemed to take forever to fill. I tried to breathe normally, but my lungs were already pulling in deeper breaths without permission.
“Look at him,” she said. “Our stubborn mutt recognizes the game.”
The faucet shut off.
Mateo carried a utility bucket into view and set it on a crate between my knees. Water sloshed over the rim and darkened my pants.
My throat burned at the sight of it. After hours without water, every instinct screamed at me to drink, but they hadn’t filled it to quench my thirst.
Pedro crouched beside the chair with a ratchet and backed the bolts out of the floor anchors, one leg at a time. Metal clicked against concrete before he tossed the tool aside, stood, and grabbed my hair again.
Diego took hold of the chair’s back while Mateo braced one heavy boot against the lower frame.
The chair tipped forward.
Cold water closed over my face.
For the first few seconds, the cold offered a twisted kind of relief, washing away the heat and sweat. I held my breath and counted heartbeats while the water pressed against my ears and reduced everything around me to a muffled throb.
One.
Two.
Three.
Pedro’s fist remained locked in my hair, holding me down.
My lungs began to burn.
I kept counting.
The first spasm hit low in my chest. My diaphragm clenched, demanding air that wasn’t there. I tried to force myself back under control, but the command to breathe drowned out every other thought.
My heartbeat pounded inside my skull.
Air.
My world narrowed to that one need.
My chest tried to expand against the water. Panic ripped through the discipline I’d spent years building, taking control of my muscles. The chair jumped beneath me as I fought the cuffs and kicked against the restraints around my ankles.
Pedro dragged me up.
I gasped, but only half a breath reached my lungs before he shoved me under again.
The second round tore through me faster.
I hadn’t cleared the first panic. My lungs were still half empty, and every instinct screamed that I was dying. Water pushed into my nose. My throat tightened against the urge to inhale.
Above me, her voice came through as a distorted taunt.
My vision sparked behind my closed eyelids.
I bucked hard enough to send pain through my shoulders. The metal cuffs bit deeper as I tried to tear my hands free.
I couldn’t think.
Couldn’t count.
Couldn’t do anything except fight the animal instinct telling me to breathe, even if breathing killed me.
They pulled me out just as darkness closed over the edges of my vision.
Air tore into my lungs.
I coughed and choked as water streamed from my hair and face. Pedro released me, and the chair slammed upright.
The bucket remained between my knees.
Isabella stepped closer while I fought for another breath.
“Impressive,” she said. “You held out much longer than most.”
I turned my head and coughed into my shoulder.
“You must enjoy breath play. I’m going to have such fun testing how long you can pretend you aren’t afraid.”
I raised my head. Water dripped from my lashes, but I kept my gaze fixed past her.