Page 43 of He Is Ours (Lovers in Crossfire #2)

Chapter forty-two

Alex

Olivia

walked

up

with

Alessio, but I prefer her being away from all of this. I doubt it will last, but I will be trying my best to get as much of this torture done before she comes back.

I turn to see Sam's head lolling from side to side. The zip ties holding his wrist are so tight that the plastic has already started to cut into his skin. Blood trickles down from the ridges. Pooling at the tips of his fingers, dripping onto the concrete floor in slow, rhythmic plinks.

I give it to Sam, he has been pretty vague with his answers, a smart ass at times, but nothing useful has come out of his mouth.

“Alright, Sammy boy, shall we let the fun begin?” I walk up to the partially conscious man. He groans in response.

“Let's see, Sam, you give me answers, and I will make this less painful for you.” I smile at him with my sweetest smile.

“Bullshit,” he says and then spits at me. I step back before it can hit me.

“You know, I love your fire. Too bad I have to rip it out of you.” I say, patting his cheek. He tries to bite my hand, but I pull it away just in time.

I walk over to my bench full of tools to play with, and I see my cordless drill, which could be fun. I grab it off the table, snap in the 5/64” titanium bit, barely the width of a matchstick, but that made this whole thing worse. I pull the trigger and let the motor hum to life.

I turn to look at Sam, whose eyes have gone huge.

“Listen here, Sammy boy, you planned to trade my woman for a debt that your dead brother made. So we’ll start small, and we earn our way up.”

The drill spins, high-pitched like a dentist’s tool, but colder. This is more personal. I grip his hand and press the bit against his fingernail. “This is precision work, Sammy boy, you don't want to rush it.”

The bit punches through the nail plate with a crunch, then hits bone. The scream that leaves Sam’s throat was instant. Blood streams down his palm as the drill stutters, caught in the marrow.

“Feel that?” I asked, "That's what control feels like.”

I move on, joint by joint. Knuckle, wrist, then ankle. Each time, I choose a smaller bone and a harder target. The drill overheats and begins to whine. Blood spatters the floor in oily ribbons.

“Alright, Sam, looks like you killed my drill, so now to find a new toy to play with.”

I set the drill down on the table, blood and bone dust crust the tip like rust. Sam’s sobs bounce off the wall. The sound is low and raw, barely even human. I am honestly surprised he is still conscious. His head is slumped forward but still twitching like he’s trying to hold on.

Fucking pathetic.

I glance back over to the tools. So many options. A blowtorch? No, that's too messy. A scalpel? Too sterile. That's when I remember the superglue in my pocket. My lips curl in an evil smile.

“Ever hear about the old KGB trick, Sam?” I ask, spinning the glue in my hand. “They used this stuff on prisoners. Sealed eyelids shut. Glued lips closed. Took days to wear off. Real poetic shit.”

I crouch in front of him and flick his chin up. His eyes flutter open, red and watering.

“Wanna try a modern version?”

He whimpers, and I take that as consent. I uncork the glue with a pop

, then reach for his hand, the same one I drilled through.

I grip the palm open. The skin is shredded, red, and swollen. I pour the glue directly into the open wound. He jerks, howling as muscles spasm as the chemicals hit raw flesh.

“Oh, I know, burns like a bitch,” I murmur, holding his hand still as the glue pools, hardens, and locks his ruined hand into a stiff, mangled claw. “But it’s more than pain, Sam. It’s permanence.”

He screams until his voice breaks, and I watch his throat work uselessly, like a fish out of water.

“Still got nine fingers left,” I remind him gently, brushing hair from his blood-slick face. “And I’m just getting started.”

I stand and stroll back to the table. My boots squish against the blood-smeared floor. A slow grin creeps over my face as I grab the lighter and the ice pick.

One brings fire. The other, frost. Balance.

When I turn back around, Sam is sobbing quietly. “Please,” he croaks. “Please, I didn’t know she was yours

…”

I stop cold. “ Didn’t know

?” The words echo inside me, bounce around like gunshots.

I walk up to him again, quieter this time.

“You didn’t know?” I ask softly, tilting his chin again. “You were ready to sell her like she was livestock, Sam. My woman. And now, you want mercy?”

He shakes his head, but it’s too late.

“You’ll have to earn mercy.”

I flick the lighter to life and let the flame dance just below the ice pick’s tip. The metal heats slowly, glowing red.

“Let’s start with your knees.”

Sam starts shaking his head before I even move. His breath comes in rapid, wheezing pants, like he’s trying to hyperventilate the pain away. I don’t give him the luxury.

The ice pick glows dull red. I grip it like a dagger and kneel in front of him.

He starts to beg. Words slurring together, “Please,” “God,” “I’ll talk”, but I’ve heard it all before. Pain makes people say whatever they think will make it stop. I’m not looking for desperation. I’m looking for the truth.

I grab his right leg and slam my forearm into his thigh to pin it down. He thrashes until I drive my elbow into his kneecap. That shuts him up.

“Don’t move,” I growl. “You’ll want this to be clean.”

A lie. There’s nothing clean about this.

I drive the tip of the red-hot pick into the side of his knee, just beneath the patella. Cartilage crunches like shattered glass. His scream is a broken thing, wet and animalistic. The stench of burning flesh fills the air—a sickening mix of blood, sweat, and scorched meat.

He nearly blacks out.

“Stay with me, Sam.” I slap his cheek. Hard. “You pass out, I wake you up, and we start again. You understand?”

Tears streak down his cheeks as he nods frantically.

“Good.”

I twist the pick. He arches up so violently that the chair tips, but it doesn’t fall; his zip ties hold too tightly. His mouth hangs open, jaw trembling, no sound coming out now. Just a raw gasp like the last bit of air got ripped from his lungs.

I yank the ice pick free. Blood pours down his leg, dark and heavy.

“You’re not just paying for what you thought you could do to her,” I whisper, leaning close. “You’re paying for all of the things your piece of shit brother did do to her.”

His head lolls. I stand again and wipe the tool on a rag.

Behind me, the steel door creaks open.

I freeze.

Olivia’s voice, calm and horrified all at once: “Alex…”

Shit. She hasn't seen me like this before. I have let my demons out to play.

I turn slowly. She stands there, eyes locked on me, taking in the blood on the floor, the screaming wreck of a man zip-tied to the chair, and the tools now officially all laid out on the table. She doesn’t even flinch. She just stares at me, like she’s seeing something she didn’t expect.

Something she can’t unsee.

“You weren’t supposed to come back down. You were supposed to stay upstairs,” I mutter, wiping my hands on a towel.

Olivia takes another step into the room, then halts. Her hand flies to her mouth.

The scent hits her fully now. Blood, sweat, piss, and that unmistakable stench of burning flesh. It clings to the walls, to the floor, to me

.

She stumbles back a step, then doubles over, gagging. The dry heaves turn violent, and she turns away just in time to vomit against the concrete wall.

“Fuck,” she whispers, her voice raw, her breathing ragged as she leans against the cold surface, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her uniform blouse. She still hasn’t changed out of her work clothes.

I stay quiet. There’s nothing I can say that’ll soften this.

She spins on her heel, trips over herself, and bolts. Her boots echo off the concrete as she disappears up the stairs, one hand over her mouth, the other bracing against the wall to keep from falling.

The door slams shut behind her, and the silence returns.

I stand still, staring at where she’d just been.

Then I inhale slowly through my nose, and the smell doesn’t bother me anymore.

I turn back to Sam.

He’s barely holding on now. Head lolled, face slick with sweat, tears, and blood. His fingers twitch like his brain is still trying to escape, but his body has already given up.

Good.

I turn to Oliver, who is still standing in the corner of the room, watching. “I’m done with him. If you want to do anything, he is all yours; if not, leave him here to die. I’ll deal with it later. I need a fucking whiskey.”