CHAPTER 3
ROSE P.O.V.
The metallic tang of the needle glinted under the pathetic bulb, a cold, sharp promise of what was to come.
My breath hitched, a desperate little sound in my throat, but I clamped my jaw shut, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a scream.
My body coiled, every muscle tensed, ready for an attack I couldn’t fight, but ready to resist nonetheless.
The masked man, the one who spoke, watched me with unfeeling eyes, a slow, cruel smile spreading beneath his balaclava.
"Let's make this clear, moya roza," he murmured, his voice a low, chilling whisper.
"We want what's in your pretty head. Every secret Liam Morozov spilled, every detail you unearthed about Konstantin Volkov.
You have two choices: tell us, and we stop.
Or you don't, and we continue until you beg for death. "
His hand, surprisingly gentle, settled on my shoulder, just above the bruised flesh where I’d been dragged.
It wasn't a comforting touch; it was a prelude, an assertion of ownership that made my skin crawl.
My stomach churned, a mixture of nausea and a fear so profound it bordered on a sick, perverse thrill.
He was so close I could smell the stale scent of his clothes, the faint, metallic tang of his own presence mixing with the overwhelming smell of my terror.
"I told you," I choked out, forcing the words past a throat suddenly tight with apprehension. "I know nothing. I was just his... his captive."
The man chuckled, a dry, humorless sound.
"A captive who fucked him raw on a desk, a captive who dug through his secrets, a captive who became his obsession.
Don't insult my intelligence. You are more than a pretty face, Rose Collins.
And we know it." His fingers tightened on my shoulder, not enough to cause pain yet, but enough to make the bruised muscle beneath protest. "The game is over, devushka. Morozov is gone. You are alone."
The image of Liam, bloodied and broken, flashed behind my eyes again, a fresh wave of grief and fury washing over me.
No. He wasn't gone. Not entirely. His ghost, his teachings, the brutal lessons he’d pounded into me, they were still here, embedded in my bones.
I was his monster. And I wouldn't betray him.
"He taught me one thing," I spat, meeting his gaze fiercely. "Never betray your own. And I am his."
A sudden, sharp slap across my face made my head whip to the side.
The taste of blood exploded in my mouth, hot and coppery, joining the previous taste.
My cheek stung, a burning fire, and my ear rang.
My eyes, watering from the force of the blow, focused back on him.
His expression remained unreadable, only the cruel crinkle around his eyes betraying his amusement.
"Stubborn, indeed," he sighed, almost regretful. "Pity." He turned to the second masked man, who stood silently, observing. "Begin with the usual. Pressure points. We need her awake, but pliable. And make sure she knows every gasp, every whimper, is for nothing."
The second man nodded, his movements economical, devoid of emotion. He approached me, a large, hulking shadow, and my muscles instinctively tensed. The first man leaned back, observing, a predatory glint in his eyes.
The hulking man knelt, his gloved hand reaching for my bare foot. A cold dread washed over me. My toes instinctively curled away, but his grip was iron. He squeezed, hard, applying pressure to a point on my arch. A jolt of agonizing pain shot up my leg, making me gasp, a raw sound of distress.
"What... what are you doing?" I stammered, my voice trembling despite my efforts to control it.
The first masked man smiled. "Just a little persuasion, moya roza. We know the body has its own language. And eventually, it tells us everything."
The hulking man increased the pressure. My breath hitched. It wasn't a crushing pain, not yet, but a deep, throbbing ache that spread through my foot, vibrating up my calf. He began to twist, slowly, methodically. My vision blurred for a second, my body screaming.
"Stop!" I cried out, the word torn from me. "I don't know anything!"
He ignored me, his grip unwavering. The pain intensified, a searing fire spreading through my foot. I bit down on my lip, drawing more blood, trying to stifle the cries that threatened to erupt. My body arched, a desperate attempt to escape, but I was trapped against the cold, rough wall.
"The crescent moon cipher, Rose," the first man said, his voice cutting through the pain. "What did it mean? What did it point to? Who was Volkov colluding with, beyond Valentin?"
My mind raced, struggling to focus through the agony. The cipher... it led to Volkov, to his influence over the older councilmen, to his long game. But there were other names, other symbols. Liam had been so close. We had been so close.
"I... I don't remember," I gasped, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes, not from weakness, but from the overwhelming, burning pain. My foot felt like it was being twisted off.
The hulking man grunted, a sound of satisfaction. He released my foot, only to grab my hand, twisting my wrist, forcing my fingers back at an unnatural angle. A fresh wave of agony. I screamed then, a raw, guttural sound that tore through my throat, echoing in the confined space.
"Good," the first masked man said, his voice flat. "Let it out. You’ll have plenty more opportunities."
My body convulsed, fighting against the restraint, but it was useless.
He held me captive, my small frame no match for his brute strength.
My wrist screamed in protest, a blinding white pain that made my head spin.
I tasted more blood from my lip, mixing with tears now streaming down my face.
Shame, hot and prickly, joined the agony.
I hated them for this. Hated them for making me feel so weak, so broken.
But even through the pain, a cold, calculating part of my mind began to work.
My historian's brain, forced into overdrive by the sheer brutality. I was lying on a concrete floor. The air was damp, yes, but not utterly stagnant. There was a faint hum, a vibration that I’d felt before.
Not constant, but intermittent. Machinery? Outside? A generator?
"Tell us about Volkov's network," the first man pressed, his voice like ice. "The politicians. The police. The judges. Who is bought?"
My vision swam, but I forced my eyes open, forced them to focus. The hulking man released my hand, leaving my wrist throbbing, red and swollen. He moved to my other foot, a silent promise of more pain.
"I... I don't know," I whimpered, the lie tasting like ash. I did know pieces. Fragmented names, connections I’d only just begun to trace, but nothing concrete enough for them to truly use. And even if I did, I wouldn't betray Liam's memory.
The hulking man began to press on my toes, one by one, each joint screaming under his methodical torture.
I bit down on my tongue, stifling a cry, my body trembling uncontrollably.
This wasn't about breaking bones, not yet.
This was about systematic, excruciating pain, designed to strip away my will, piece by agonizing piece.
They wanted me to break. They wanted me to talk.
But Liam’s voice, rough and possessive, echoed in my mind.
You are mine, Rose. Mine. He had broken me, yes, but he had also instilled a stubborn, defiant strength in me.
A resilience born of survival in his brutal world.
He had shown me the depths of darkness, and in doing so, had taught me how to find the tiniest flicker of light.
My eyes, even through the haze of pain, began to scan the cell again, this time with a purpose.
Not for escape, not yet, but for information.
Every captor had a routine. Every prison had a flaw.
My mind, usually focused on deciphering ancient texts, was now focused on deciphering my immediate reality.
The single bulb overhead. It flickered occasionally, a tiny, almost imperceptible dip in its dim glow. Was it connected to that hum? A shared power source? And the door. Heavy, yes, but the hinges groaned. Old metal. Rust. Could it be forced? Could it be bypassed?
"You are wasting our time, Rose," the first masked man said, his voice hardening, pulling me back to the present. "And your pain is only just beginning. We have all night. And all week." He gestured, and the hulking man began to twist my big toe, slowly, excruciatingly.
A scream tore through me, raw and uncontrolled, my back arching off the cold concrete. My breath came in ragged gasps, my body drenched in a cold sweat. But even as the pain threatened to overwhelm me, a spark of defiance, of pure, unadulterated fury, ignited within.
"Go ahead," I gasped, spitting blood and saliva at the floor near the masked man’s boots. "Do your worst. I won't tell you a goddamn thing. Liam may be gone, but I will make sure you burn for this. All of you."
The masked man’s head tilted again, observing me.
"Liam is gone, Rose. And you, his feisty little whore, will soon follow.
Unless you speak." He reached into the case again, his fingers selecting a new instrument.
Not a needle this time, but a thin, flexible rod of metal, with a small, sharp hook on the end.
My blood ran cold, fear a tangible thing clawing at my throat.
"This is not a game, Rose," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "This is not Liam's twisted seduction. This is real. This is pain beyond anything your 'monster' could inflict. And when you scream, when you beg, we will be listening. And then you will talk."
He held the hooked rod up to the light, its tip gleaming wickedly.
My eyes widened, darting between the instrument and his unfeeling gaze.
My body trembled, but my resolve, though battered, remained.
I would not break. I would not. Liam, wherever he was, dead or alive, deserved that much.
My silence was my last act of loyalty, my last act of defiance against this brutal new reality.
The hulking man seized my chin, forcing my head to stay still, my eyes locked on the horrifying instrument. My breath was trapped in my chest, a desperate, silent plea for mercy that would never come.
The first masked man leaned closer, his voice a chilling whisper that promised unspeakable horrors. "Let's see just how deep your loyalty goes, moya roza. Let's see if your will is as strong as your mouth."
My eyes darted around the cell one last time, a desperate attempt to imprint every detail, every possible weakness, into my mind.
The faint, high-pitched whine that cut through the silence every few minutes – a ventilation fan?
From above? The smell of something faintly electrical mixing with the damp earth.
The small, almost invisible crack in the concrete floor near the drain, suggesting a possible weak point, a subtle shift in the foundation.
My body was being ripped apart, but my mind, a furious, resilient engine, was assembling a puzzle. A puzzle of survival. A puzzle of escape. I wouldn't just endure. I would watch. I would learn. And I would make them pay. Even if it killed me.
The cold metal of the hook touched my bare skin, just beneath my ribs.
I flinched, a full-body tremor. My eyes squeezed shut, a silent scream tearing through my soul.
Liam. Please. The raw, primal fear was overwhelming, but underneath it, a tiny, dangerous spark ignited.
I would not give them what they wanted. I would not.