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Cold.
Freezing cold.
It was no longer bothering me in the way it initially had.
In the way in which they’d intended for it to bother me.
Now it had become a part of me.
It had become a help to me.
It kept me focused, kept me from slipping the way they wanted me to.
And the pain, while incapacitating me physically, was aiding me mentally.
Neither Carson nor Samuel had any idea the training I’d undergone to be able to rework physical pain to my advantage, to turn it into an asset. They were aware that I had a high pain tolerance, but that was the extent of it.
Know your enemy, fuckers.
Now all I needed was to bide my time until my body caught up with my mental fortitude.
The issue was that it required a reprieve from their onslaught.
I knew I’d been here for almost a week. They’d relished telling me how much time was passing by.
That had been a mistake on their part.
It had given me my bearings, allowing me to calculate things and anticipate. The shock element of torture was a powerful tool and they’d fucked all over that, their egos and arrogance hindering them as usual, as well as my father’s determination to always prove that I could never compare to him, let alone ever best him.
I’d woken up to the sound of their voices coming from the corridor outside the cell.
I was no longer bound to the metal chair that was still there in the center of the room. The bucket of water was gone that they’d shoved my bare feet into as they’d electro-shocked me for hours trying to get me to beg for a break from the agony as they’d told me over and over that I was a shell, that Asher Monroe was no more. I hadn’t said a word, even as the violent current had torn through every part of me, like hellfire coursing through my veins.
Carson had lost his temper when no progress had been made. He’d wrapped a chain around his fist, Samuel-style, and beaten me until the chair had toppled and I’d passed out.
I could taste the dried blood on my lips, feel the stickiness over my cheeks. My left eye was swollen, and he’d reopened the wounds they’d inflicted prior to yesterday. The stripes down my back, etched deep into my flesh, from a bullwhip. They hadn’t stopped when they’d broken skin, it had actually spurred them on. When they’d gotten tired of that, Samuel had tried to inundate me with key, triggering words, phrases, and then forced me to endure hours of mind-warping videos, all geared to implanting my new role into my mind, to overriding my own will.
Whenever I’d tried to turn away with the limited ability I’d had while bound to the chair, or tried to close my eyes against the onslaught, my father had begun cutting into me with a hunting knife, drawing painful, shallow wounds down my torso, following the scars he’d made in the dungeon years ago.
I zoned in on their conversation, noting that my father’s voice was raised, angry.
Good. The lack of progress they’d made with me was getting to him now.
“Nothing’s fucking working! There should’ve been a crack by now. Something. There’s nothing at all.”
“You trained him too well.”
“No. I ensured there would always be an opening in case it ever came to this. This isn’t my doing. It’s him. That fucking stubbornness of his.”
“Resilience and strength of will, you mean?”
“You really think it’s a great idea to be complimenting my little bitch of a son to me right now?”
“The fact that he’s not the little bitch you want—and need—him to be is the essence of the problem.”
“We need to make a dent. A crack needs to occur. Resort to the other method.”
“You’re sure? I’d rather just ramp up the degradation element, instead of doing that. You were adamant that it was off the table with Asher, no matter what.”
