Page 26

Louhi

Honey Eyes took me back to my cell where I’ve been replaying my conversation with Digs for the last few hours. Even if I had something better to do—which I don’t—I’d still be analyzing every word he said and the ones he didn’t, dissecting each pause, and examining all his expressions.

I spent the first however long thinking about how he sort of apologized for torturing me. I come from a world where apologies don’t exist and the people who screw you over die instead. Forgiveness is a foreign concept to me and not something I’ve ever granted someone. If you wrong me, that sentences you to death. I don’t know what it’s like to let go of the bitterness and indignation I’ve held toward someone other than to kill them. But as I paced the three steps forward and back—four, if I take tiny steps—within my cell, I realized I don’t hold any resentment toward him for what he’s done to me. Am I still irritated that he took my toenails and lit my skin on actual fire? Hell yes. But do I hold that against him? Not really. And that shocks me to my core.

There’s a kinship I share with Digs. His beast is so like mine: thriving in the dark, feasting on blood and depravity, aching to be unleashed to wreak bloody havoc on the world. I saw it in his eyes as he sat across the table from me. I could also see that he’s struggling to carry the shame of that darkness. I’m years ahead of him in that department, but I remember the desolate isolation that would trickle into my mind. Thank God I had Mercer to help me navigate those emotions and embrace myself for who I am. It took me years to fully accept myself and my abnormal feelings, but once I finally did, the world became my oyster. Too bad I can’t help Digs find a way to get there too.

I’m not doing quite as well with the other information he divulged. I didn’t anticipate him working out that I shouldn’t be here, and I’m not sure how that will affect me or Mercer. I didn’t want to ask about my brother since no one has seemed to work out that he’s the one who should be here instead.

Then there’s the information I chose to reveal. Something about his sincerity and the softness in his gaze had me opening my mouth and spouting truths I had no intention of sharing.

I don’t know what Digs plans to do with my admission, but I’ve never shared my kill count with anyone ; though, I keep a careful mental count. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I hit two hundred, but maybe I’ll host a party or something. If you’re still alive , my brain supplies unhelpfully.

Lying down on the damp, moldy floor of the cell, I stretch out diagonally and close my eyes, thinking through a way of escape. I will stay alive.

I wasn’t lying when I told him that I wasn’t going to allow myself to be killed at the end of the week; I am simply too determined to see the outside world again. What I was lying about was taking Digs down with me if I get caught. I wanted that declaration to be true, but even as I said the words, they tasted like acid on my tongue.

What is this man doing to me?

Would Digs be willing to help me escape? I can’t imagine that’s what he meant when he said he’d figure it out. But what if it was? Every time I’m with him, I can’t help but feel as though the darkness residing within each of us is drawn to the other like a magnetic pull. I wonder if he feels it too. Although, what if our inner beasts aren’t calling to each other like I originally thought? What if it’s our souls fighting and clawing to get closer? What if it’s a mating call, one soul to another, and we’re destined to respond?

I’ve never been one for fate or destiny. The only compass or divine sense I follow is my gut. She’s never wrong. Ever. And right now, she’s telling me that Digs is Team Lou. I should trust that, right? But that’s crazy. Trusting my enemy would be ludicrous.

I’ll do anything to secure my freedom, but something tells me Digs would have lines he wouldn’t be willing to cross; I shouldn’t put all my eggs in that basket. I need to make plans of my own. After all, I’ve always had my own back.

I’ve run through approximately one million scenarios at this point, but none have yielded results that don’t end with me dead. I haven’t begun to see nearly enough of this place to make a successful escape attempt, and that’s a problem. I overheard a guard once say something about Block Ten, but I haven’t seen more than this one cell block I’m being kept in, and I’m certain that was on purpose. I’ve only been to the infirmary, the washroom, and the torture room. That’s not enough to go on for a legitimate escape attempt, and I have no choice but to nail it on the first try. Otherwise, they’ll either lock me up so tight I won’t be able to make a second attempt, or they’ll just kill me. To make this work, I need to explore more of this place at some point in the next day or two.

Thy Art Is Murder’s “Reign of Darkness” suddenly blasts through speakers, and I bob my head along to the music. It’s louder than usual—and it’s always at a near deafening decibel—but at least they’re finally playing something I know and like. I’m nodding along when my cell door abruptly swings open, revealing three guards, the noise drowning out their arrival. Has Digs sent them? There’s no way he’s already worked a way out of this situation for me. If so, damn, he works fast.

Sitting up, I leer into the masked faces before me, but something about this feels off. On the surface, it doesn’t seem all that unusual; nevertheless, my gut is screaming at me that something about this is wrong.

The guard in the center steps inside my cell, his rifle strapped to his back, a second Glock at his other hip, and a total of three combat knives, instead of the usual two. Blimey, this is definitely wrong.

“Let’s go,” he growls, and even in the low light, I can see the hatred boiling in his brown eyes.

“I don’t think so,” I counter, shaking my head as unease drops into my empty stomach like lead.

“It’s not optional. Let’s go. ”

He’s wrong. Life is full of options. Some are as simple as yes or no. Others are much more complex, like life or death. This is optional, though, at least to some degree.

Quickly assessing my options, I land on a surprise attack. Holding my ground, I wait until he’s entered my personal space. Once he’s standing just before me, I swing my head back and slam it into his forehead as hard as I can. He grunts and, with a satisfied smile, I bring a knee up and smash it into the infinitesimal balls he’s got between his legs.

He doubles over, and I go for the knife at his hip, but don’t get to it before the other two guards rush to his aid, one of them subduing my arms and jamming a needle into the muscle of my shoulder.

I sway on my feet, my vision hastily blurring. Just as I’m about to black out, I wonder if this was Digs’s plan all along.

I’d pay good money for them to stop knocking me out. It hurts like hell coming out of that murky, drugged haze. I don’t know what they shot me up with, but I can tell my arms are restrained over my head and something unyielding and firm is wrapped around my ankles. With my eyes still closed, I decide to risk curling my toes to see if they’ll move without my captors noticing. Paralysis would be a problem. Fortunately for me, they do.

“You overdosed her, you fuckhead,” one of the guards grumbles.

So, they want me awake.

“I’m a fucking medic; I know exactly how much I gave her, and I didn’t overdose her,” I hear another snap, and I nearly give away my state of consciousness by spitting at him. However, if this is the same guy who touched me on that table in the infirmary, he’s got a lot more than just a little saliva coming his way.

“Fuck it. Let’s start without her being awake. It’ll be more fun to see her wake up to it anyway,” another says, and I think he’s the one I went after in my cell.

Jeesus Kristus, is everyone around here spectacularly fucked in the head?

The heat of a body steps into my personal space just as something slices through my clothes, stripping me bare. When the balmy, warm air of the room kisses my skin, I don’t feel the same thrilling anticipation as when Digs touches me.

I can’t help but notice the similarity of this situation and my time spent with Digs; the resemblance is uncanny. Did he orchestrate whatever is happening now? I mean, that’s repugnant, even for him. But is it possible? I don’t want to believe that.

Digs did say he couldn’t kill me, but was he simply full of shit? I’d have been a fool to believe him, even if part of me wanted to, but based on my current situation, I can’t help but wonder if it was all a lie, if everything was a lie.

The last of the tatters of my clothing are pulled from my body and I’m left hanging from the ceiling, my legs tied to the floor. Deciding that my eyesight would be useful right about now, my lids flutter open, and I immediately regret that decision. Three masked men stand in front of me, flipping blades in their hands.

“Glad you finally joined us. You were about to miss all the fun,” the one on the left states, glee edging into his tone. But it’s not the fun kind of glee that Digs gets when he’s about to give in to his darkness. No, this motherfucker is just foul.

“Are you familiar with Lingchi?” the middle one asks, stepping forward, dragging the tip of his combat knife up the soft skin of my side. I get the sense that this bloke is the ringleader of this little trio, and it only makes me all the happier that I head-butted him.

“Death by a thousand cuts,” I sneer, well acquainted with the ancient Chinese art of execution. I wouldn’t be a very good assassin if I didn’t have a vast number of tools in my tool belt.

“Then you know it’s one of the most excruciating forms of torture and death?”

“Obviously.” This patronizing wanker is only serving to piss me off at this point.

The other two join him then, circling me like wild hyenas. Look, I’m all for having a creative outlet, but this is not the healthiest of choices.

“We’ve been given orders for your execution, you know. But they never care how the prisoners die here,” the one behind me jeers.

Was Digs’s earlier conversation with me simply to taunt me, knowing that I’d die tonight? Was his goal all along to dangle the alluring picture of freedom in front of my face, just to add to the torture of yanking it away again via painful death?

I can feel my body going hot as my blood simmers, bubbling within my veins, and if I were to open my mouth, fire would surely flow from my lips. Betrayal scorches me from the inside out, burning my skin and melting away any parts of my heart that I, for a moment, let soften toward Digs.

Past the burning cinders, deep within the recesses of its ivory cage, my heart weeps. Shoving the ache aside, I focus my attention on my fury, letting it fuel my fire instead.

Thinking I could trust anyone other than myself was a mistake—a mistake that appears will cost me dearly.

My anger blazes more intensely than the pyre I’m dreaming of placing Digs atop, my lip curling as I imagine the smell of his flesh charring, smoldering until there’s nothing but bones left.

It won’t be enough.

Up until now, I’ve gotten the impression that Digs’s sadistic tendencies were physical, not so much psychological. But I can’t presume to know him at this point, so what if I got that bit wrong? What if I got everything wrong? What if my gut finally let me down?

My thoughts buzz like a hive of crazed wasps as one of the men slices into my shin lightly, just below my kneecap, and I hiss at the sharp sting. Another is made to my upper thigh, another to the backside of my shoulder.

Just like that, the bloodletting has begun.

Slice.

Cut.

Slash.

I bottle my screams as a gash is made on the top of my foot, a howl erupting within my chest that I trap there. My head slumps as I observe my blood dripping, falling, sliding onto the concrete. The same arsehole makes an identical cut on the top of my other foot, forcing the tears to begin sweeping down my face in a sheet of salty water.

How am I going to make it out of this?

Even as I close my eyes, trying to draw on the memory of the last time I saw my parents before their deaths, the pain seeps into my soul, blotting out the kiss my father pressed to my temple. Still, I try to recall my mother’s arms wrapped around me, tucking me in to her slender body, telling me they’d be back in time for dinner, but the panic and suffering keeps the memory just out of reach.

Desolation hurts as bad as pain, and in my desperation, I assess my situation, realizing that there’s no hope of escape, only to endure.

The cuts they’re making are shallow, but that’s how this whole thing works. These blokes clearly aren’t adhering to the traditional practice of Lingchi by removing the more insignificant pieces of my flesh, like my arms or legs, but the result is essentially the same: maximum pain and suffering before they extract more vital pieces from my body.

Pain, sorrow, rage, and betrayal are my only companions as they carve up my body. Even if, by some miracle, I am to survive this, I’ll be permanently marked with the agonizing memory of this experience, my body forever displaying the torture I endured.

Will Mercer be informed of my death? If he is, I hope he remembers to invite Conall and Viktor to my funeral.

Crouched before me, one of guards looks up, and I take the opportunity to memorize his hazel eyes, so that I’ll remember them in this lifetime and the next. Mentally, I vow to come back and make the deaths of these three far worse than mine. And once they’re dead, I’ll begin the cycle of retribution all over again in the afterlife, making sure these three rest with stress .

And then there’s Digs. I’ll play with him until he’s begging for death, then I’ll make his eternal state of rest so fucking miserable that he won’t find a moment’s peace. He won’t know true agony until I’m finished with him, then I’ll begin again.

I’ll be so bloody busy with vengeance that I won’t even have time to suffer in Hell myself.

Hope springs eternal…until it doesn’t, and I’ve just about lost it. Only a few hours ago, I was plotting my escape, optimistic that I would get the bloody fuck out of here. Not so much anymore.

The slices are coming rapidly now. Over my stomach, back, across the side of my neck. A thin cut is made to the tops then below each of my breasts, drawing a whimper of excruciation and torment from me. It’s a plea for help, one brimming with emotional anguish.

For the first time in my life, my mortality surrounds me, closing in. I’m alone and scared. I’ve faced death and lived to tell the tale before, but now? Like this? Tied up with no way out, tortured and killed by blood loss and pain? I don’t know if I’ll survive that, so I release my anxiety, suffering, and loss in a bloodcurdling wail. In the first scream that I’ve allowed to slip from my lips tonight, I shriek for the life I’ll leave behind; I scream for the love I’ve never had and the days I’ll never see.

I scream for me .

They keep slashing until I’m covered in at least a hundred superficial cuts, some deeper than others, then they jostle me around so that the wounds seep blood and tear open. My eyes drift shut as I beckon death to whisk me away from this hell and escort me to the next.

“This is for Stuco,” one of them snarls as he drags the tip of his blade down the center of my chest, over my sternum. Though, I must be going into shock because an iciness crowds my senses, the pain lessening, and I hope that means the end is near.

Despondency rolls in like a dreary mist and takes up residence. Hanging my head, I attempt to increase the difficulty of pulling oxygen into my lungs, hastening death.

A violent roar cuts through the vacant static warbling in my ears, and I know without opening my eyes who it came from. I can sense him, despite the blackness creeping in. The air around me crackles and fizzes with his overwhelming presence. He must be here for the grand finale, but I don’t want to give him that satisfaction. Summoning every remaining molecule of strength within me, I peel my eyes apart and drag my thousand-pound head up, resting it against my bleeding arm as I regard the blue-eyed beast filling the open doorway.

Except, I don’t see a bright excitement looming in his irises as he watches me succumb to death. Instead, a dark hurricane swirls in his stormy eyes: shock, fear, and unrestrained fury spilling from every inch of him.

A whimper crawls up my throat, but I trap it there.

He came for me.

He doesn’t hesitate for a single moment before yanking the man to my right from my body by the back of the neck, slamming him against the wall. In the time it takes me to blink, Digs has his Glock at the man’s temple and pulls the trigger, painting the grey concrete a beautiful shade of garnet.

I had it wrong. I had it so fucking wrong.

How could I have believed he’d have been in on this? After all, wouldn’t he have wanted to kill me himself?

My gut is always right, and I should have trusted her. I should have trusted him.

He told me to trust him, and I didn’t. I’ve never been able to rely on anyone else before, but fuck it all, I think he may have just proven himself a worthy exception.

Something in my chest— in the fiber of my bones —yearns to be let loose, straining to reach for him.

For a moment, I let myself believe that he had lied. I suppose that was easier than admitting that I didn’t want him to be the one who hurt me. I wanted him by my side—outside of this place.

Maybe it’s the blood loss, but I want a future, one with him. I want to learn his favorite foods, and how he likes to spend his Saturdays, and how many times he’s watched his favorite movies.

Another tear coasts down my face, dripping into an open cut on my cheek, making it sting anew. I’m so weak: blood-loss, exhaustion, and fear threatening to drag me under their spell, but I force my eyes to remain open.

“You’ll never get away with this, Diggory,” the man behind me sputters as Digs hauls him away from me. The hazel-eyed fucker in front of me dashes toward the open door, but Honey Eyes suddenly appears, his golden eyes widening as he takes in the scene, before transforming into a blaze of indignation.

He snatches the masked man before he can make an escape, holding a knife to his jugular. Dragging him back inside the room, Honey Eyes slams the door behind him.

My attention shifts as Digs positions his Glock at the guard’s head.

“Wait,” I whisper hoarsely, my vow of retribution humming through my weakened veins.

Digs and Honey Eyes whip their heads toward me, their weapons poised to strike.

“Wh—which one is the medic?” I ask, my need for vengeance the only reason I’m able to get the words out.

“This one,” Digs supplies, turning the sod in my direction and shoving him to his knees.

“I want him,” I rasp.

Digs stares into my eyes for a long moment before taking in the vast extent of my injuries and softening his tone. “Let me be your hands, your wrath. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

Barely able to speak, I know this is as close as I can get to revenge, so I order roughly, “Take off his mask. I want to watch him die.”

Digs rips the mask from the guard’s head, gripping him tightly by his shoulders. The guard’s face twists as he jerks against Digs’s hold, but there’s a slight quiver in his movements. Good, I hope he’s scared.

“Cut out his eyes. He saw things he shouldn’t.”

Digs’s gaze slams against mine, holding for a moment before he nods. He holsters his Glock and pulls the knife from its sheath before snapping the man’s head back and carving into his left eye like it’s a Christmas turkey. Gouging out his eye, he rips it from the socket, then repeats the process on the other side. The man’s blood-curdling screams are so loud that I smile, despite the effort and pain.

Sounds of the soldier’s agony lessen my own, the retribution nourishing my twisted soul as it loosens the iron grip that potent suffering and hatred had on my heart. I feel lighter with each cut Digs makes on my behalf.

“Remove his hands. He touched something without permission.” My voice is hoarse, body trembling from the inside out as I endeavor to regain my composure .

Digs glances at me for a beat as if seeing me for the first time, but he’s never seen my darkness glow like vivid, lustrous moonlight glittering across still water before. He’s never witnessed the violent brutality that I’m capable of inflicting. I’ve seen his darkness; now he’s seeing mine.

After only a beat of hesitation, he grips the guard’s hand and the man thrashes, desperately attempting to yank it away, but Digs punches him in the mouth and he rocks back.

My chest squeezes in delight, like someone is gently stroking the callous scales on my heart, soothing me.

Digs starts slicing through the man’s fingers, tossing each digit aside before cutting through the bones of his wrist. My feral smile grows, the joy of this man’s suffering numbing my own pain.

When he finishes removing both hands, I wonder if I can ask him to remove his fucking brain since he knew too much, but ultimately decide that might be taking things a bit far, so I settle on something a little more…palatable.

“Make him bleed out.”

With every slice Digs makes, the tension coiled around my muscles lessens like a sedative drip slowly leaking into my system.

He makes several strategic cuts down his forearms and steps back as we all watch the remaining blood in his body spill onto the floor, joining his discarded body parts. Everyone looks on quietly; the only sounds in the room are the whimpers from the dying fuck on the floor and screams of impending doom from the other, unfortunately still breathing, arsehole.

“Shut the fuck up and watch the show, Borman,” Honey Eyes demands of his captive.

Too soon, the medic breathes his last breath, his chest going still. Just as I’m about to start in about the next fucker, Digs steps over the dead man and approaches me.