Page 9 of Savage Captor (Deadly Devotion #1)

Cain stares at me for a long moment. “She hasn’t eaten since coming here. I don’t want her to die, so you can bring her food. Something light. Feed her, talk to her. Maybe you can get somewhere with her. ”

“Bring her food?” I repeat, not bothering to hide the disgust in my voice.

He wants me to provide for her? To bring her sustenance?

The only thing I should be bringing her is sheer agony.

Did she feed my brother when she served him to her father on a silver platter?

Anger reignites inside of me, straightening my spine.

“Yes,” Cain responds flatly. “Bring her food. She will not die prematurely, not under my supervision. Show me that you can be trusted to keep control of yourself.”

If I refuse, Cain might take away my right to ever see her again. I might not get to be the one to kill her, and I can’t risk that. I won’t risk that. I have to be the one who takes her life—it’s only right. That much is owed to me.

“Fine. I’ll bring her some fucking porridge.”

Cain and I exit my apartment together. He goes off in his own direction, while I head to the first floor and make a pit stop by the kitchen.

Professional chefs are employed here, paid good money to keep their mouths shut and cater to the whims of operatives.

I order a bowl of bland, tasteless porridge, and wait a few minutes for it to be prepped.

If I have to feed the Sharpe bitch, I won’t make it pleasant for her.

Armed with a Tupperware container of porridge and a plastic spoon, I rise to the unpleasant task of giving my captive a gift she does not deserve.

My steps are slow and reluctant as I leave headquarters and walk the stone path to the annex.

I unlock the front door with a keycode and head right for the gleaming metal stairs that lead to the lower levels.

The annex isn’t used as much as it ought to be, despite being an extensive building with a large capacity for holding prisoners.

The Nighthawks don’t often get contracts that require prolonged torture, but when we do, we use this place.

Sometimes, we film the torture and death of a captive to send proof of pain and killing to our employers.

Maybe I’ll film Scarlett’s death. Let her father hear her screams as I kill her. If that doesn’t draw him out of his hole and into a war, nothing will.

Outside the door to Scarlett’s cell, I hit the light switch that’ll turn on the lights inside before unlocking and opening the door.

The girl is huddled against the far wall, just as she was last time I saw her.

She’s taken some serious beatings since—Cain hasn’t gone easy on her, even though he’s expressed doubt for her guilt.

Her hands are bruised, and her fingers are missing several nails.

Her small body shivers in the cold of the room.

I push away the pang of guilt that tries to assail me. This is the woman who led my brother to his death. I have nothing but disdain for her. From the glare she pins me with, it looks like the feeling is mutual.

“Room service,” I say drily. “Stand. Go to the table. Sit in your chair, and thank me for the food.” I feel my upper lip curl. “You certainly don’t deserve it.”

A soft breath escapes her. I think it might be a laugh, but I can’t tell; it’s too weak.

“I don’t deserve any of what’s happening to me here.

” Her voice is hoarse, rattling. It almost makes me feel bad for her.

“One day, you’ll realize that. I like to think that you’ll feel some guilt, but I know that’s wishful thinking. Monsters like you have no guilt.”

Bitch. Even now, when it’s clear who holds the power, she’s poking at me. Challenging me. Trying to manipulate me.

It won’t work.

“You have ten seconds to get your ass in your designated chair,” I growl. “Fail, and I’ll hurt you. ”

She inhales a deep breath and slowly comes to a stand.

The stab wound on her thigh has been bandaged, and the doctor cut away one of the legs of her jeans so he could work.

She looks thoroughly fucked up and broken, but not enough.

There’s still a glimmer of defiance in her eyes.

A hint of hope. I look forward to the day that hope extinguishes, and she’s left with nothing but fear.

Nothing but acceptance of her fast-impending demise.

She tries to step forward on her injured leg. Fails and tumbles to the ground. Lets out a low, pathetic whimper. I set the porridge on the table and take a seat, watching her struggle. I wonder if Sam tried to limp his way to escape.

Her chest heaves with fortifying breaths, and she pushes herself up again.

Slowly gets to her feet and gingerly takes a single step, favoring her good leg heavily.

When she realizes that relying on her left leg for support is the way to go, she squares her shoulders, and carefully limps her way over to her chair.

She falls into it, panting as if the short walk was like a sprint to her.

I have to admit, I admire her perseverance. Her tenacity. It won’t do her any good here, but it’s noteworthy.

I push the porridge across the table to her.

Then, on second thought, I snatch it back and pick it up, standing and rounding the table.

I don’t want her to have the agency to eat herself; I want to humiliate her by forcing her to eat from my hands.

Her captor, tormentor, and eventually killer’s hands.

I lean against the table in front of her, uncap the porridge, and lift a small spoonful out. “Open up,” I say.

“Seriously?” she asks. “You want to lower yourself to hand-feed the woman who you think led your brother to his death?” she scoffs. “Come on. ”

“I want you to live and breathe only by my mercy,” I respond. “I want you to accept sustenance from me, knowing that I’ll shortly be the one who kills you.” I imagine that’ll be a wonderful brain-fuck.

Her lips thin, and her cheeks heat with embarrassment, but she nods.

“Open wide,” I say mockingly, holding up a spoonful to her.

Her jaw clenches, and she stews in silence for several moments, seeming to fight an inner battle before acquiescing. Before deciding that her need for food outweighs her disdain for me. Her hatred of me is very much mutual.

She parts her lips, and I feed her a spoonful. She grimaces—either at the bland taste or the absolute lack of power—but chews and swallows nonetheless.

“Looks like you can follow instructions, when there’s a reward on the table,” I say. “Now, if you were to tell me what I want to know, the reward would be better than a bowlful of shitty porridge.”

“Like what?” she responds automatically.

“A well-curated last meal before you kill me? If I had information to pass on about my father, I’d do it.

He deserves to die. But I have nothing to tell you, because I don’t know anything.

I can see that neither you nor your soulless associate will believe me, so there’s no point in belaboring the issue.

One day, you might realize your mistake.

Or you might not. Either way, I think you’ll be too screwed up to care. ”

“Why do you insist on sticking to your lies?” I ask, genuine curiosity poking at me. “They won’t save you. If you think that getting me to believe you is your ticket out of here, you’re wrong. Your fate is sealed.”

“You think I don’t know that?” she asks, cheeks flushing a deeper color.

The dark red brings out her freckles, and her anger makes her eyes flash.

Jesus, she really is a siren; even her anger is beautiful.

This girl is deadly, and the sooner I’m rid of her, the better.

“You think I don’t know I’ve been marked for death my whole life?

” she goes on. “I’ve known what’s coming for me for as long as I can remember. Since my original sin.”

I narrow my eyes at her. She’s speaking in riddles, and I’m almost tempted to ask her to clarify… but she’ll only lie. I gave Cain my word I wouldn’t hurt her this time, so I won’t. I lift up another spoonful and she accepts it without comment, gazing at her lap as she chews and swallows.

“It could all be over a lot sooner for you if you just cooperate,” I say. “You’re only hurting yourself by lying.”

She meets my gaze. “No, Monster. You’re the one hurting me. I can’t say if you’ll regret it once you know the truth, but I hope you do. I hope it haunts you. I hope it leads you to the same end your brother had—”

My hand is around her throat the next second, cutting off her words.

She just can’t help but provoke me. She called me a monster, but she’s only seen an inch of my monstrous side; if she keeps pushing, she’ll get the entire smorgasbord.

Her face flushes red at the lack of oxygen, then deepens into a purple.

I drop the porridge back on the table and use my free hand to press down on her bandaged thigh, right over the place I stabbed her.

“I’m not the one who’s going to die here, cunt,” I vow. “That’ll be you, and your death will not be pretty. Keep pushing me, and it’ll last fucking weeks.”

I release her, disgusted with her existence. I could just kill her now. I could choke her until she’s dead and watch the life leave her eyes. I could tear through her bandage and stick my bare fingers into her wound just to hear her scream.

But Cain’s words come back to me. He doesn’t want me to kill her or torture her, he doesn’t trust me. And, frankly, he shouldn’t. This girl, this bitch has a strange knack for pushing me to the very edge of my already-faulty sanity.

“You’re crazy,” she wheezes.

“You have no idea,” I growl. “Now eat your fucking food. Can’t have you dying on us… yet.”