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My stepmother’s heels clicked annoyingly against the concrete floor as she stepped toward us. She quirked a well-manicured eyebrow when she stepped into view.
“And she had to be naked for this?”
Kellan, the psychopath, shrugged. “More of a canvas to work with. Plus, a pleasure to look at.” Marianne grunted her disagreement and waved her hand dismissively.
“Well, get to it, then.”
I couldn’t help but give a low laugh. My throat was still fucked up from smooshed nose choking me. “My father is going to kill you so, so slowly,” I taunted her. “He hates traitors.”
She chuckled mirthlessly, her lips tipping up scornfully. “Who do you think your father will believe?” She cocked her head to the side. “You, the daughter he just met? Or me, his loving wife? Even if you managed to get out of here alive, he’ll never believe you over me. Just like he didn’t believe Katherine.”
“You forged that note, didn’t you?” I shook my head in disgust. “You’re the one who turned her in to Elias after she escaped.”
Marianne dragged in a short, contempt-filled laugh, her tongue dancing along her upper teeth. “Your dear mother wrote that note all on her own,” Marianne admitted gleefully. “All I had to do was threaten to slit his throat in their bed. Easy peasy. She would have done anything for Liam.”
“You convinced her not to tell him what happened in the first place.” I knew the answers to these questions already. Most of them. But I needed to hear them out loud. I needed to hear it from the mouth of the monster who had taken away everything my mother cared about.
“That was a little harder, I must admit,” she shrugged. “But victims’ shame is such a powerful thing.”
My heart broke for my mother. Shattering into tiny pieces like it had done so many times before when I dug through her past. The more I learned, the more I hated the world she had been forced into. This was someone she’d trusted. She’d treated Marianne like a sister without even knowing their connection.
“Why did you—”
“Enough with the questions,” Kellan spouted. “We’re the ones who will be asking them from now on. And how you answer will dictate how much suffering you go through.”
Marianne tightened her jaw and stepped back, watching from the shadows. Was she relishing in what was about to happen? In my pain? Had she done the same to my mother?
“Good girl.” He praised my silence as he dragged the tip of the knife over my uninjured breast before circling my nipple. “I want to know where the compound is, Mrs. Dashkova.”
Kellan used the feminine version of my last name. Adding the extra syllable. It was a common practice in Russian culture, but I’d found that very few of Matthias’s people adhered to that rule. Especially once I becamePakhan.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I told him calmly. “I’ve never heard about a compound.”
Kellan smiled cruelly. “I think you’re lying.” He licked his lips. “Remember, little one, I can make you suffer in ways that Christian could never dream of. If you think your time with him was painful, just wait until I’m done with you.”
Try me.
“I don’t know anything about a compound,” I repeated firmly. “I was leader in name only. Vas ran the business in my stead.”
The blunt edge of the knife tapped against my nipple, causing my body to jerk unexpectedly. “Now,” Kellan frowned, “I think you’re lying, and I hate liars.”
And he showed me just how much that statement was true. With every lie came a punch, a slap, a nick of the knife. My stomach was covered in a mix of shallow and deep cuts, my blood smeared across my body like a Picasso painting.
When the knife didn’t work, he turned to needles. Digging them into the most excruciating places he could find. A few on my feet, so that if I flexed them, I’d cry out as they dug further into my body. A line of them up my belly. The inside of my elbows.
By the time he was out of needles, I was a ball of excruciating pain, and I wanted it to end. After a few hours, I was unable to answer him at all. Not that he seemed to care. It didn’t stop him from removing one needle to move it somewhere different. At least he hadn’t removed my fingernails or tried to shove the needles beneath them. I’d read about that in some yakuza mafia book somewhere, and it sounded worse than death.
My stomach felt like an empty pit by the time Kellan was finished with me. Marianne had left the room once he’d started cutting into my skin. Her face had been pale, eyes glassy. Guess she couldn’t stomach it.
Weak-ass bitch.
The psychopath lifted the needles from my skin one by one, placing a soft kiss against the skin he’d abused, murmuring about how he didn’t want to hurt me and I should just give in.
Yeah, sure, buddy. I’ll give in when you’re hanging out the window by your entrails.
Jesus, I needed so much therapy.
“Don’t worry, little one,” he cooed at me once he’d removed the last needle. “I’ll make you feel better.”
