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“You’re in for a treat today.”
The silhouette stops in the entryway of my cell, shrouded in shadows. I don’t move from where I am—the far corner is the safest place to be, like my own self-created territory within a territory that couldn’t be further from my own.
I’m on enemy soil. But this corner, it’s mine.
I don’t move unless made to. The smarter way to go about things would be to obey. Go where asked and do as they say.
Rules have never been my thing. It’s no different in captivity. If they want me, they’re going to have to come and get me. Come and make me.
Fuck him. Fuck them. Fuck the rules.
So, I stick to my corner. I take the extra beatings and punishments that come with my defiance. However many days and counting, and still I won’t break. My skin, my bones, my body might, but not my mind.
I will never give in. He has to know it. Every visit of his, the dissatisfaction twists onto his ugly, pudgy face.
“Did you hear me?” the silhouette asks. He takes a step into my cell. His knuckles tap against the concrete wall, twice as loud in the quiet, boxed-in space. “I have a special treat for you.”
Finally, his face falls under the measly streak of light that’s poured in from the hall. Ray De Trolio watches me with the kind of twisted interest a mad scientist would one of his experiments. I didn’t need to see his gloating grin to know it was him standing in the doorway; Lucius assigned him my main tormentor for a reason.
He gets on my last nerve and knows I can’t do a damn thing about it.
“Don’t you want to know what it is?” The tempo of his knuckle-tap increases, like he’s creating his own playful melody as he stands over me, huddled in a corner, bruised and beaten up.
This couldn’t be more fun for him.
Yet I don’t answer. I give him the same reaction I’ve given every other moment I’ve been here.
Silence and my glare. Both sealed with homicidal rage and the promise that if I’m ever given even the slightest opportunity, Iwillkill him.
De Trolio’s not a fighter, but so long as the power dynamic remains the same, he finds it funny. Surveying me from under his bushy unibrow, he laughs.
“How’s the hand?”
Silence.
The hand he’s referencing rests dead in my lap. Just about every bone broken, capillaries busted, skin tinged blue and purple from the extreme trauma and bruises. It could be permanently disfigured.
Though I never gave him the pleasure of letting him know my pain. I took it in silence, like now.
“It’s disrespectful when you don’t speak,” De Trolio says. His knuckles play another tune on the concrete slab as if he’s thinking on something. Mind made up, he drops into a crouch that brings us closer to eye level. “You know, the Boss said I could do whatever I wanted. I’ve been going easy on you. I couldreallyfuck you up.”
More silence.
His unibrow furrows, his teeth clenching despite his grin. “You think you’re such a fucking badass, don’t you? Too cool to let anybody know you’re in pain.”
De Trolio rises and swings his leg back. The bottom of his loafer smashes into my nose from the kick he delivers to my face. The pain is immediate and intense, burning my nasal passages and throbbing across my cheeks and bridge of my nose. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s broken it.
That’s his intention—he swings his leg back for another go.
His loafer careens straight at my throbbing face, only to be stopped. I catch it with my good hand and shove it away, throwing him off. He staggers back and almost loses his balance altogether.
Ray De Trolio isn’t so amused anymore. Not when I show him how lucky he is I can’t really fight back. Regaining his balance, he straightens his suit jacket and attempts to play up a sense of coolness he’s lost.
Too late. The agitation reddens his ears and tightens his voice.
“See, always thinking you’re such a fucking badass! I should break out the flogger and cut open that back of yours again. Make you stand in a puddle of your own blood. But I’ve got a better idea.”
By the way he grins, it must be something he’s spent time cooking up. He’s proud of himself.
