The air in the corridors was rampant, heavy with the kind of damp that clung to your skin like a jealous lover, unwilling to let go.
My boots clicked against the stone floor, each step a deliberate note to a song only I could hear.
Brutus lumbered behind me while Atticus led the way, his wiry form darting forward with the eager skitter of a spider who’d just spotted a juicy fly.
I could feel the giddy little spark in my chest, fizzing like cheap champagne, bubbling up at the thought of what awaited us.
I shivered, not from the chill but from the sheer delight of it all—this was my stage, my spotlight, and I was ready to perform. My mind danced with possibilities, each one more deliciously wicked than the last until, finally, we reached the room.
Atticus pushed open the door, the hinges screaming like a chorus of the damned, and we stepped into the space that had haunted my dreams ever since my little training session with Freya.
The torture chamber was a masterpiece of misery, its walls lined with instruments that looked like they’d been forged in the bowels of some infernal workshop.
Chains dangled from the ceiling, glinting dully in the flickering light of a single lantern. Racks, spikes, and blades, oh my—each one polished to a sinister sheen, whispering promises of agony.
The air reeked of iron, sweat, and something faintly chemical, like the ghost of a thousand bad decisions lingering in the shadows. I inhaled deeply, letting the scent fill my lungs, and felt that giddy spark flare into a quiet flame.
And there, sprawled across the centerpiece of this grim theater, was Victor. Poor, foolish Victor, naked as the day he was born, his skin glistening with sweat as he writhed against the bindings of the ancient rack placed in the center of the room.
His wrists and ankles were strapped tight, the leather biting into his flesh, and his chest heaved with panicked breath. His eyes, wide and wild, darted between me, Brutus, and Atticus, searching for a lifeline that wasn’t there.
"What—what the hell is this?" Victor’s voice cracked, high and frantic, as he yanked against the straps. "What are you going to do to me? Let me out, you bastards!"
His body thrashed, the rack creaking under his weight, but the bindings held firm. Sweat poured down his face, matting his hair to his forehead. His lips trembled as he tried to muster some shred of defiance.
It was almost cute, like a puppy barking at a storm.
I stepped forward, my heels clicking like a metronome, and leaned over the rack, letting my shadow fall across his trembling form.
"Oh, poor thing," I purred, my voice dripping with mock sympathy, "you’re looking a tad tense. Allow me to explain the star of our little show."
I gestured grandly at the rack, my fingers tracing the air above its cruel mechanisms. "This charming contraption is designed to stretch your limbs, bit by bit, until your joints pop like champagne corks and your muscles scream for mercy. The gears turn, the ropes tighten, and your body—well, let’s just say it learns to be very, very flexible."
Victor’s face twisted, his eyes bulging as if I’d just described his personal apocalypse. His breathing turned into a series of desperate gasps, his chest heaving so violently I thought he might hyperventilate right then and there.
"You’re insane!" he spat, his voice shaking as he tugged harder at the straps. "You can’t do this! You won’t get away with it!" His defiance was adorable, really, like a mouse squeaking at a cat.
I leaned in close, so close I could smell the fear rolling off him, sharp and tangy. My lips brushed his ear as I whispered, "Shhh. No need to get all worked up. It’s just a little stretch—think of it as yoga for the soul."
I planted a soft, teasing kiss on his cheek, feeling the heat of his skin under my lips, and then pulled back to brush a lock of damp hair from his forehead.
His eyes followed me, wide and horrified, but there was something else there too—a flicker of confusion, like he couldn’t decide if I was his tormentor or his savior. Oh, I do love a captive audience, I thought to myself.
Without breaking eye contact, I sauntered over to the lever at the side of the rack, my fingers dancing across its cold, iron surface.
"Well then, let’s begin," I said, my voice bright and manic, and with a theatrical flourish, I gave the lever a single, deliberate crank.
The gears groaned, the ropes snapped taut, and Victor let out a scream that could’ve shattered glass, his body jerking against the bindings. His eyes squeezed shut, his mouth open in the perfect shape of terror, and for a moment, I thought he might actually pass out from sheer panic.
But then—nothing. No pain, no tearing, just the faint creak of the rack settling into its new position.
Victor’s eyes snapped open, and a breathless, almost manic laugh escaped his lips. "That’s it?" he taunted, his voice hoarse but dripping with bravado. "That’s your big scary torture? Gods, you’re pathetic. All talk and no bite."
His grin was wicked, his teeth flashing in the dim light, and I had to admit, the man had guts. Misguided, foolish guts, but guts nonetheless.
I rolled my eyes, letting out an exaggerated sigh. "Oh, Victor, you wound me," I said, clutching my chest as if he’d stabbed me. "But since you’re feeling so chatty..." I cranked the lever again, harder this time, and the ropes tightened further, pulling his limbs just a fraction more.
His grin faltered, his jaw clenching as the first hints of strain crept into his muscles. Another crank, and another, each one drawing a sharper breath from him, his bravado crumbling like a sandcastle under a wave.
Sweat was streaming down his face now, his skin glistening like he’d been dipped in oil, and his eyes darted wildly, searching for an escape that didn’t exist.
Look at him, I thought, my heart doing a little tap dance of glee. All that defiance, and for what? To make my day more entertaining?
I leaned against the rack, crossing my arms and tilting my head as I watched him squirm. The room was alive with the sounds of his labored breathing, the creak of the ropes, the faint drip of water somewhere in the shadows. It was a symphony, and I was the conductor, wielding pain like a baton.
Atticus, standing off to the side, let out a dark chuckle that sent a shiver down my spine. "Well, Loona," he said, adjusting his spectacles with a flourish, "you seem to have this well in hand. I’ll leave you to your... artistry
He gave me a nod, his eyes glinting with something that might’ve been approval or just sadistic amusement, and then he was gone, slipping out the door like a shadow with places to be.
Brutus grunted, his massive arms crossed as he leaned against the wall, watching me with a mix of exasperation and grudging respect. "You’re enjoying this way too much," he said. "What’s next, you gonna start braiding his hair while you crank that thing?"
I flashed him a grin, twirling a lock of my own hair around my finger. "Oh, Brutus, don’t tempt me. I could make him look fabulous while he screams." I paused, tilting my head as if considering it. "Though I suppose I’d need a better comb for all that sweat. What do you think—pomade or gel for our dear Victor?"
Brutus snorted, shaking his head. "You’re a menace. You know that, right? One of these days, you’re gonna crank that thing too far and end up with a room full of regrets."
"Regrets?" I gasped. "Darling, I don’t do regrets. I do results." I waggled my eyebrows, leaning closer to Victor, who was still trying to hold onto his composure despite the strain etching lines into his face. "Speaking of results, Victor, how’s that stretch treating you? Feeling limber yet?"
"Fuck you," he spat, his voice tight with effort, but there was a tremor in it now, a crack in his bravado that made my heart sing. "You think this’ll break me? You’re nothing but a sadistic little—"
I cut him off with another crank of the lever, this one harder, faster, the ropes snapping with a sound like a whip. A faint, wet pop echoed through the room—a muscle tearing, just a little, just enough to send Victor into a fresh round of screams.
His body arched against the rack, his face contorted in agony, and I raised a hand to my mouth, letting out a theatrical "Oops!" that was about as sincere as a politician’s promise.
"Oh, dear," I said. "Did I go too far? My apologies, darling. I get so carried away when I’m having fun." I leaned in close again, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Now, Victor, be a good boy and tell me what I want to know. Spill those delicious little secrets, and maybe I’ll let you keep your limbs attached."
He glared at me, his eyes blazing with defiance despite the sweat and pain. "Go to hell," he rasped, but his voice was weaker now, the fight draining out of him like water from a leaky bucket.
I sighed, shaking my head as if deeply disappointed, and reached for the lever again. Poor fool, I thought, my fingers brushing the cool iron. He thinks he can outlast me.
The giddy spark in my chest was a full-blown fire now, licking at my insides, urging me to push harder, to break him open like a piñata and see what secrets spilled out. I was drunk on it, on the power, on the sheer thrill of holding his fate in my hands.
But before I could give the lever another crank, the door burst open with a bang that made my heart leap into my throat.
I spun around, half-expecting the Boss, Freya, or some new disaster, but instead, it was Mia—Mia, of all people, standing upright in the doorway, her face a mask of pure, unfiltered rage.
Her eyes burned like twin infernos, her lips pulled back in a snarl that would’ve made a wolf jealous, and her hands were clenched into fists so tight I thought her knuckles might split. Atticus hovered behind her, his face a mix of flustered panic and exasperation, his hands fluttering like he was trying to shoo a stubborn bird.
"Mia, please," Atticus said, his voice strained as he reached for her arm. "Let’s not do anything rash. You need to—"
Mia didn’t let him finish. She stormed into the room, her boots slamming against the stone floor, and before I could blink, she was on Victor like a hurricane. Her hands wrapped around his throat, her fingers digging into his sweat-slicked skin, and she let loose a torrent of curses that would’ve made a sailor blush.
"You bastard!" she screamed, her voice raw and ragged. "You fucking piece of filth! I’ll rip your throat out!"
Victor gasped, his body jerking against the rack as he struggled for air, but even in his panic, he managed a defiant grin. "Filthy whore," he choked out, his voice barely audible. "You think you can—"
Crack!
Mia’s hand connected with his face, the slap echoing through the room like a gunshot. Victor’s head snapped to the side, his grin twisting into something obscene, and he let out a low, taunting laugh. "That all you got, princess?" he rasped, his eyes glinting with malice. "I’ve had worse from—"
He didn’t get to finish. Mia’s hand darted beneath her cloak, and in a flash, a dagger gleamed in the lanternlight, its blade aimed straight for his throat. Time slowed, the room holding its breath, and I stood frozen, caught between admiration and alarm. Oh, Mia, you glorious disaster, I thought, my heart racing. You’re stealing my show!
But before the blade could find its mark, Brutus moved.
He was a blur, a mountain of muscle and instinct, and in an instant, he was behind her, his massive hand closing around her wrist.
The dagger clattered to the floor, its metallic ring a sharp counterpoint to Victor’s choked gasps. Mia let out a sob, her body sagging as the fight drained out of her, and Brutus pulled her back, his arms wrapping around her like a shield.
"Easy there, he murmured, his voice low and steady, a stark contrast to the chaos of the moment. "He’s not worth it. Not like this." He held her close, her face buried in his chest as she began to cry, her shoulders shaking with the weight of it all. "It’s alright," he said softly. "You’re alright."
Mia’s voice was muffled against his shirt, her words spilling out in a broken stream. "How did it come to this?" she whispered. "Fuck, how did I end up here, in this hellhole? My life—it’s all gone wrong. All of it..." Her tears soaked into his shirt, and for a moment, the room was silent except for her soft sobs and Victor’s ragged breathing.
Brutus glanced at me over her head, his eyes hard but steady, and gave a slight nod. I caught the cue immediately, my lips curling into a wicked grin.
"Well, Victor," I said, sauntering back to the lever, "since you’re feeling so talkative..." I gave it another crank, hard and fast, and Victor’s screams erupted again, filling the room with a sound that was half pain, half terror. I couldn’t help but laugh, a bright, manic sound that danced over his cries.
Oh, this is too good, I thought, my heart pounding with delight.
Brutus guided Mia toward the door, his arm still around her shoulders. "Get some rest," he told her, his voice gentle but firm. "Atticus’ll take care of you." Mia nodded, her steps slow and unsteady, and Atticus followed her out, casting one last flustered glance my way before the door swung shut behind them.
The room was quieter now, but the tension lingered, thick and electric. Brutus pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a curse under his breath. "You and your damn theatrics," he muttered, shaking his head.
I gasped, pressing a hand to my chest. "Theatrics? Brutus, darling, this is art. I’m painting with screams and secrets, and Victor here is my canvas." I leaned toward the rack. "What do you think, Vic? Ready to add a few more brushstrokes to our masterpiece?"
He glared at me with daggers in his eyes, but before he could spit out another insult, a sharp, wet rip echoed through the room. His skin—his actual skin—had split, just a little, along his arm, and his scream was a thing of beauty, high, raw, and desperate until—
"Fine!" he shrieked, his voice breaking. "I’ll tell you! Just—please, make it stop!"
I froze, my hand on the lever, and tilted my head, letting the moment stretch like taffy. "Oh, darling," I said, my voice soft and teasing, "now that’s the spirit."