Page 47 of The Shape of my Scar (The Unbroken #1)

H e swung like a grotesque pendulum.

The meat hooks groaned under Anatoly’s weight, rusted metal biting deep into the sinew of his shoulders.

Blood dripped in sluggish rivulets down the length of his arms and thighs, pooling in the grated floor before slithering into the central drain.

Strips of skin hung like tattered streamers from his torso, peeled with a surgeon’s precision.

One ear was missing. His face, once elegant and refined, was now swollen, unrecognisable, a violent patchwork of bruises and busted veins.

Dimitri had insisted on being part of it.

They’d blindfolded him, placed noise-cancelling headphones over his ears, and brought him in the last stretch by hand to the warehouse on the farm.

Once inside, he listened to his old man—his mentor, his father, the man who raised him—speak about how he had murdered his wife and destroyed his daughter from the inside out.

Dimitri had listened to the truth spill from Anatoly’s mouth over Faolan’s open line when he decided to let them borrow his helicopter and come along to help.

He hadn’t asked for permission; he simply took his pound of flesh.

They would have died anyway, Anatoly and his two remaining dogs, but this wasn’t about mercy.

What they needed was information about how deep the rot went.

So, while Lirian scrubbed the surveillance, making it appear Anatoly had departed toward the nearby airport—disappearing into the ether like so many ghosts—Dimitri painted the truth in blood.

He had left an hour ago after apologising to Faolan for his incompetence and promising her a blood debt.

Most of his nails were gone.

Maro had taken his time with those.

He’d stood beside Anatoly with a calmness that was far more frightening than rage. Every question was followed by silence. And if Anatoly hesitated, Maro reached for the tool he’d brought.

A cold little thing, custom-forged. He called it the Wailer.

He’d designed it for one purpose, and he used it with care.

Each pull was slow and deliberate. He held Anatoly’s gaze the entire time before his eyes were swollen shut, letting him see what was coming, letting him feel every second of it.

“Think about your answer,” Maro murmured once, wiping blood off the handle with clinical detachment. “I’ve still got a few fingers left.”

By the end, Anatoly wasn’t just bleeding.

He was singing.

But it was too late for mercy. They were here for the truth, and he wasn’t leaving the room in one piece. It was just a matter of how much he suffered on the journey. And Maro? Maro was an artist.

Anatoly’s limbs bent in ways they never should: dislocated, broken, ruined. The shoulder had stopped bleeding hours ago. His body twitched now and then, some nerve impulse firing in the body that was close to giving up the ghost.

Faolan had watched for a while but had to leave once he lost control of his bladder. Thane and Lirian had walked her to the farmhouse.

Lirian had remained close after Thane went back to join the others, never more than a few feet away. From the coat rack near the door, he grabbed a thick wool blanket and draped it gently over her shoulders. She flinched, but didn’t look at him.

“You’re safe now,” he said, voice low. “That bastard won’t touch you again.”

She nodded once, barely perceptible. Her eyes were still locked on something that wasn’t there.

Thane had already patched the cut on her forehead, hands trembling despite his training.

Every bruise, every scrape, he had touched them all with the fury of a man barely restraining the monster inside.

His jaw had ticked, knuckles white as he muttered to himself through clenched teeth.

He had rubbed her cold hands on their way to the farm, and his eyes had not left her face throughout the entire trip.

Before he’d left the room to join the others, he had turned to Lirian and snapped, “Don’t take your eyes off her. Not for a bloody second.”

Lirian had only smiled. “Wasn’t planning to,” he’d replied. “Not this time.”

Faolan shifted slightly on the couch, the blanket slipping from one shoulder. Lirian reached out and adjusted it gently, like he had done a hundred times before—except now, the stakes were no longer hypothetical.

She still didn’t look at him.

But when he tucked the edge of the blanket under her arm, her hand twitched—just once—like she almost wanted to hold on.

Anatoly sagged on the meat hooks, his body a ruin. His jaw hung at an unnatural angle, one side of his face grotesquely swollen. A few broken teeth scattered the floor beneath him like grisly confetti. His breath rattled, thick with blood and mucus.

Maro stood just to his left, rolling the thin bone saw between gloved fingers. “You’ve got about three coherent sentences left in you, old man,” he said, voice dry. “Use them wisely.”

Anatoly wheezed a laugh or something like it.

“You think…you’ve won,” he slurred. “You think this”—he jerked weakly against the hook—“makes a difference? You can kill me, but I will live inside her for the rest of her life.”

Thane crouched before him, bloody sleeves rolled to the elbow, face a mask of cold control. “Start talking,” he said flatly. “Or I’ll let Maro get creative.”

Zel cut in, “We’ve already laid your trail. There are images on various CCTVs of you heading for the airport with a small girl in the front seat. A girl who is just a clever AI. You will be branded the paedophile you are. Your fake footage won’t be difficult to find. Lirian is very good.”

Anatoly snorted, the sound wet and awful. “Smart. But they won’t find me, will they?” The words were garbled through a broken jaw.

“You won’t be hiding,” Maro said smoothly. “You’ll be food for my pigs.”

Another whine of the bone drill. Another scream.

Thane said nothing. Just stared.

Anatoly coughed, spitting blood. “Dimitri heard it all, didn’t he?” His good eye fluttered open, seeking someone who wasn’t there. “I loved that boy like my own. He trusted me. Left her with me.” A ragged sound, a half sob, half deranged chuckle.

Thane spoke up, “He didn’t know you were destroying her. That you were the one who killed her mother in front of her. That you are the reason she hasn’t spoken since.”

He gave a slow, wheezing sigh. “He took his pound of flesh. It would have been better to raise a dog.”

A long pause.

“Faolan is mine,” he said then, quieter. “You turned her against me. She…shot me. Not one of you got to her first. She did it alone.” His gaze flicked up to Thane. “Does that eat at you, soldier boy? That she had to save herself yet again?”

Thane’s nostrils flared, but he stayed silent.

Anatoly chuckled again, broken-jawed and bloody.

“She was always mine. You just…borrowed her. I didn’t even get the chance to take her again.

Had to leave…Russia. The warehouse they found her in was traced to one of my shell companies…

Needed to vanish… By the time I returned, she was already in Denmark doing some bloody collaboration. Then vanished again. Undercover.”

He blinked slowly. “It was Malcolm who ruined it, that stupid bastard. Got himself exposed. His operation needed to be shut down before it drew attention to me. So, I stepped in.”

Maro narrowed his eyes. “How did you know who Trish really was.”

A twitch of a smile. “Zel’s debrief. Clever man, that one. Not clever enough. Slipped. Said something…and then I knew.” His ruined mouth cracked wide. “Trish was Faolan. All that time…right under my nose.”

His head lolled slightly. “Every moment she spent with Thane was more than I could bear.”

Thane’s jaw clenched.

“I arranged the meeting,” Anatoly continued. “You were meant to be drawn away. Left her vulnerable. Thought I could collect her quietly.” Another gurgling laugh. “Didn’t work out, did it?”

Maro stepped forward. “No,” he said, almost gently. “It didn’t.”

Anatoly looked between them. One eye gone, the other dimming.

“I told you what you wanted. Names. Routes. Codes. I gave you the whole damn network.”

Thane stood slowly. “And we’re grateful.”

Then he nodded at Maro.