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And he looks like death. His eyes roll, his mouth open, dripping blood onto the stone floor. My heart breaks for his pain. For his suffering. As if mine was nothing.

Something about seeing him this way flips a switch inside me.

Pure, unfiltered fury boils over, unlike any I have ever felt.

And so it is that I must watch through a haze of red in my vision as they continue to torture him. For hours. Waterboarding. Submersion.

Yet for some reason, they never come to me. They only make me watch this horror show. So I do not look away. I behold their every strike, every wound they inflict on my lover.

Marking it down to return it tenfold on them.

But then the skeletal man administering the pain reaches for a pair of pliers, clamps them to Ciro’s fingernail. I cannot control the scream that tears itself from my throat.

Brutal, primal, it echoes out, reverberating through the walls.

His name.

“Shakal!”

The torturer hesitates, looking at the window.

Ciro’s head rises, just enough to look ahead. And I see my name on his lips. “Vanya.”

His eyes flick to the side, to the man still distracted by my wail. Standing a bit too close. Ciro’s forehead takes him full in the nose, spraying blood and sending him tumbling back.

Though I cannot hear the sound, I see the man’s mouth open. Shouting in agony.

It brings a smile to my face.

After this, the torture seems to be over. For now.

They return me to my cell. But this time, I am not alone.

19

CIRO

The theme fromWho’s the Bosskeeps playing on repeat in my head.

Only slightly less annoying than the days of torture that I just endured. Thank Danza they gave me a break. My ass was starting to itch something fierce in that chair.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been out when I wake up.

If you can call it that.

My mind becomes aware of acute pain. Very strong pain. In lots and lots of places.

“Shakal?” Her voice is angelic, like a Canadian Vegas pop star.

“Speaking,” I mutter, shifting my head. I’m lying down. On her lap.

Nice.

Somehow, despite a couple of rough days, she still smells like a hint of cinnamon. And blood, I mean definitely blood. And we both smell kinda burnt.

Hard pass on ever getting electrocuted again.

I let the warmth between us lull me back to sleep for a while, waking with her curled in my arms. Doesn’t get much more romantic than that. Minus the wet, stone-walled cell and the rats.