Page 13 of Savage Captor (Deadly Devotion #1)

Scarlett

If I had a gun to my head, I’d guess that I’ve been here for a couple of days—less than a week—but I could be off. I’ve found that I care more about the passage of time now that I know I’m extremely short on it.

I will die in this cell. With each pulled fingernail, my hope for escape or rescue is depleted. Every meticulous hit on sensitive body parts, some of which cause cracks on my ribs, slowly siphon away my belief in my capability to escape.

No system is perfect; I know this. If I were in tiptop shape, well fed and taken care of, then I think I might have a chance of getting out of here—but I’m not well fed or taken care of.

I’m starving, exhausted, and constantly in pain.

My thigh throbs like a bitch, and I can’t stand without falling back over .

In other words, I’m stuck. If my brother hasn’t come for me yet, I don’t think he will. Which means I’m completely fucked, and I’m going to die in here.

At this point, the best thing I can hope for is that my death is over with quick, but I doubt I’ll receive such courtesy from the men who visit me. No, I think it’s safe to expect that my death will be long and painful.

The room is kept dark sometimes, and lit up others.

Right now, it’s dark. I’ve never liked the dark—there are too many terrifying possibilities when it’s dark.

There could be a demon or a serial killer hiding in the shadows…

or a monster. Either way, the uncertainty is jarring.

And yet, I’ve found that recently, I prefer the dark.

It gives me a few moments of peace, of rest before the torture and the same incessant, recursive questions start up again.

I don’t mind the uncertainty of darkness now. Not when my fate is so certain and approaching at a terrifying speed.

To pass the time, I think of my flowers. The poor things will wilt without me, possibly even die. I should’ve taught Eric how to look after them.

Eric . My big brother. The only man who’s ever protected me. The only other reminder I have of Mom. He’s going to be devastated when he finds out I’m dead. Maybe he’ll figure out a way to keep my precious plants alive, even in my absence… maybe he’ll keep them as a reminder of me.

The overhead lights flip on. This is the only warning I ever get. I’ve trained myself to acclimate to their brightness quickly, otherwise I won’t be able to face Monster or Captor 2, whoever has come for me, head-on. I won’t be able to prepare.

Monster walks in. His expression is less severe than the last time I saw him.

He looks less angry and more thoughtful.

My vague interest in what’s been going on in his world, what could’ve segued his rage, is abruptly extinguished when I hear the squeak of wheels.

That’s my only heads up that something bad is coming before another man walks in—an unfamiliar one.

He has red hair and freckled skin. His eyes are glazed as he looks at me.

Not with drugs or alcohol, but with dissociation.

I don’t think he wants to be here, so he’s zoning out.

My attention turns to the two-tier metal cart he rolls in, and my heart drops to my stomach. There’s a stack of neatly-folded rags on the top shelf, and several gallon-jugs of water on the second.

God damnit . Waterboarding. Not even Dad ever did that to me.

Eric once suggested I try it, train to overcome it, but I refused.

My older brother did his best to train me once I escaped my father, to teach me to survive in a brutal world.

I think he was especially worried because we both knew there was a chance that his enemies would find me.

I should’ve listened to him and let him train me. My pain tolerance has certainly built during my time here, but I’m weak. I go to the gym, but I never truly focused on getting strong so I could protect myself—I mostly cared about my cardiovascular health.

New Guy casts a brief glance at me as he leaves the cart by the metal table. I think I might see a flash of guilt in his eyes, some sign that he doesn’t feel good about what’s being done to me. Nevertheless, he turns and stalks out of the room, leaving me alone with Monster.

“Ever been waterboarded?” Monster asks. “I have. Absolutely sucks, every single time. No getting used to it.”

“Get on with it, then,” I say tiredly.

“You have one opportunity to avoid spending the next few hours drowning in water only for me to resuscitate you and repeat,” Monster says casually. “Tell me what you know about your father. ”

“I know that he’s a prick.” I know he’s evil to his core. “From what you’ve told me, I know he killed your brother.” I know he also killed my mother in front of me . “I know that he doesn’t deserve to be alive.” I know I’d kill him if it ever came down to it.

Monster gazes at me for several beats, reclining against the table with his arms folded across his chest. He’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and I notice he has tattoo sleeves on his arms. Skulls, roses with thorns, forests, knives.

A black-and-white canvas telling a million stories.

Some people get tattoos because they think they’re pretty; I’m willing to bet that this guy only puts permanent ink on his body if it has meaning.

“You’re either an Oscar-winning actress or a turncoat,” Monster says.

“Either way, you’re lying about your association with your father.

Maybe you’re saying you’re estranged from him out of fear, or maybe you want him dead so you can take over the family business.

” Monster shrugs, and the gesture sends a ripple through his muscles and across his tattoos.

“Fuck knows. I certainly don’t care for your bullshit or your vendetta.

I want the truth, Sharpe, and you’ll give it to me. ”

“I’ve already told you the truth,” I sigh.

“Many times. I see that it has no impact on you, that you won’t believe me because you don’t want to believe me, and that is what it is.

You’ll keep torturing me and kill me soon.

” Maybe the one good thing that’ll come out of my death is that, if Monster plays his cards right, he’ll force my father into a war.

Dad might hate me, but he’d be compelled to defend my honor.

Assassin organizations can be old-school with their codes.

If anyone finds out that Dad failed to avenge his family, he’ll lose power.

Monster nods slowly. “That’s your prerogative. Sit in your chair.”

I don’t bother disputing the order. If I refuse to comply, I know things will get worse for me. Sometimes, the path of least resistance really is the best path to take .

It takes me time to make it over to the metal torture-trap.

If Monster’s impatient, he doesn’t show it.

The chair has now been outfitted with restraints meant to keep me in place regardless of how much I struggle, and as soon as my ass hits the chair, Monster straps my legs down and chains my arms to the chair.

I’m immobile, completely under his control.

Fear springs to life in my belly, renewed as he selects several rags and drops them on the table behind me, then none-too-gently shoves my head back, pressing me to them.

“One last chance,” he says. “Confess, and I won’t do this.

” His eyes are hard, as is his expression, but there’s an element of sheer fury missing.

He’s almost staring at me like he wants me to confess, not because it’ll be telling him what he wants to hear, but because he doesn’t want to waterboard me.

Ha . The psychosis must be setting in, because I know Monster wants to hurt me. He loves doing it. Loves punishing me for the death of his brother, even though I had no part in it.

“I confess that I escaped from my father three years ago.” I confess that I failed to protect my mother from his wrath .

“Very well.” A fresh, clean rag descends over my face, covering me from forehead to chin. I take in several ragged deep breaths, trying to get as much oxygen in as I can. It’s hard to do when my ribcage screams in protest; I’m pretty sure Captor 2 cracked several of my ribs last time he visited me.

I get a single blessed moment of silence and stillness. I take in as deep a breath as I can manage, seal my lips, and hold it.

Then, the water descends. It’s a gentle drip at first, dampening the rag, but it quickly grows into a stream, then a river.

It invades my nose, and while I try to hold my breath, it sneaks through my nasal passages and ignites a burn in my throat, causing me to open my mouth to cough.

Then, it’s coming in through my nostrils and through my mouth, suffocating me.

Filling my lungs. I try to shake my head from side to side, to avoid it, but a hard hand clamps over my jaw, forcing me in place.

The water spills for what seems like an eternity, robbing me of oxygen and sanity.

Then, it slows down. Finally, blessedly, it ends.

The rag is removed. I turn my head to the side and throw up water, coughing convulsively.

Monster releases me, letting me heave and cough and choke, not intervening.

When I’m finally done, I spit out a mouthful of bile and raise my head, facing Monster head-on.

He cocks his head to the side, looking me over. “Anything to say?”

“Fuck— you .” My words are ragged, barely audible, and they burn my throat.

Instead of raging at me, Monster nods. “Well, then, settle in. We’ve got three more jugs to go through.”

Shit.

The torture lasts for what feels like an eternity.

I die so many times I lose count, drowning in the steady stream of water, only to be forced to come back to life.

When I can’t expel the contents of my stomach and lungs on my own, Monster hits me in the chest— hard.

That gets me to heave up whatever’s left.

Finally, it ends. The jugs are empty. The waterboarding is hopefully complete, unless Monster plans to refill the jugs.

He doesn’t seem to be in the mood, though.

Through swollen and burning eyes, I see him standing in front of me.

His expression is one of faint curiosity, and something else—something deeper. Respect .

“Cain wasn’t lying,” Monster says. I assume that Captor 2 is Cain. Good to know , not that it’ll be of much use. “You really are sticking to your story.”

“I’m sticking to the truth.” I inhale a long breath, wincing as I feel cold liquid sloshing around in my lungs. Jesus .

“I’ll get the actual truth from you eventually.” Monster releases me from the cold metal handcuffs keeping me in place. He grabs the handle of the cart and starts rolling it to the door. “We’ve got time, and I’m nothing if not creative.”

Then, he’s gone. Leaving me alone and shivering. I cough and hack some more, tears streaming down my cheeks from the force of my gags.

After a while, I manage to gain some composure. I don’t have the strength to stand yet, though, so I stay slumped in my seat, my eyelids fluttering with exhaustion.

I think I’m done for the next while, but it’s only a short bit before I’m proven wrong.

The door opens again, but I’m too weak to see who’s here.

God, they should just kill me already . This level of interrogation is plain unnecessary.

Don’t these guys know that if I had anything else to say, I’d have said it by now?

They seem like professionals. More, they seem calculated.

I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re actually part of an organization.

Maybe that’s where I’m being held. In the basement of a cult of torturers and killers.

My breathing turns desperate when the door clicks shut and footsteps sound.

Familiar footsteps—Monster’s footsteps. The gentle tap of his boots against concrete.

A faint smell fills the air, slightly sweet, but I can’t tell what it is.

I don’t know if I’ll ever regain my sense of smell after the waterboarding.

“Turn your chair to face the table,” Monster says .

“I… I can’t,” I whisper, sinking deeper into my seat. I can barely lift my head right now. I’m humiliated at my own weakness, disgusted with myself, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Being drowned really has a way of taking it out of someone.

I expect anger or to hear the same command, but instead, Monster rounds my front. He sets a Tupperware full of porridge on the table, takes the sides of my seat, and turns the chair around to face the table. He even pushes it in, I stare down at the lumpy mixture of food.

Monster leans against the corner of the table and picks up the porridge. “Open up,” he says. “Time to eat.”