Page 18 of Ivy’s Poison

Now, it was time for my training to kick in. Self-preservation was key.

Instead of waiting for my rebuttal, he prowled forward, studying me as intensely as I were him. “Easy or hard way?” he asked.

Due to being twisted myself, I respected his direct question.

He stopped approaching, dipped his chin, understanding my silence was my answer, and then walked past me. His men separated as if knowing his next move. This wasn’t his first interrogation, nor mine. Now, we had to see who would be the stronger of the experienced, and who would win. I could only hope my upper hand—the desire to overcome for my daughter’s sake—was enough. He didn’t have the same goals. His daughter was presently being fucked, with his own permission. Or his idiotic twin’s.

I didn’t have to see the table, when I heard it being rolled in my direction, to know my health was in serious danger. I was well aware of the many tactics used to inspire information to roll from one’s tongue. Torture comes in many forms. Psychological: my worst fear, hence not wanting anyone to know who Jade is to me. Exposure to different elements: freezing conditions, boiling water, dunking, live burial—the norm. Sleep or sensory deprivation. Pharmacological or musical torture. Physical torture—me getting my ass beat. And, amongst others to add to the very long and inventive list, instrument torture, which happened to be the evil president’s preference tonight. I understood his choice. To untie me to relocate me or try to dunk me for a bit wasn’t advisable. My size and strength, and overall wisdom of being a badass, made me hard to handle and control.

The president returned with a cart full of useful devices. To begin with, he held up an electroshock weapon, a stun belt. This device delivered about the same juice as a stun gun and was commonly used to control prisoners. Some judges required them in their courtrooms for unruly inmates during sentencing. In my opinion, this contraption was normally child’s play. When in strong form, I could handle it easily, but I already had stitches and was unsteady on my feet, lightheaded as fuck. No bueno.

Fear was already making an appearance. I needed to pull my shit together. Inhale. Exhale. Stay strong, Bors. The black belt this torture device was attached to was Velcroed around my waist while the president palmed the remote control. He waited until his men were done and no longer touching me, for obvious reasons, then asked, “Who sent you?”

Sarcastically, I thought it appropriate for him to start off with asking me my name, but everyone had their torturing techniques, I suppose. Yes, keep telling jokes. You’ve got this.

When I didn’t answer, the president proved he had no patience. Fifty-thousand volts shot through me for eight seconds. My whole body seized in excruciating agony until it was over. I gasped for air, begging my body to hang in there for as long as possible. I wanted to cuss, promise every man present torture of their own, but when in such shocking pain, your body demands focus. It demands survival. Anger was an energy vampire I couldn’t afford.

In the courtyard, I had been carelessly attacked by mindless drunk fools, so I reacted appropriately. The animal instinct that everyone has inside them appeared to defend me, hence my aggressive response.

Torture? It’s a whole separate beast. It is calculated, meticulous, and mostly… terrifying.

Gaining partial control over my stunned body, I shook my head to clear my frazzled brain, then stared at my electrocutioner. It was crucial to stay as highly composed as possible while under such duress. Mentally preparing for more, I took more deep breaths for my body’s sake, and for my growing nerves. Yes, I am an assassin, but I am also human.

The president shrugged, not appearing to be impressed with my stamina, then asked, “Why were you sent?”

I gritted my teeth. Not happening, fucker.

My jaw involuntarily locked as volts shot through me since I refused to give up anything on my boss, even though it appeared he had sent me on a hell of a ride, emotionally, and now physically.

Once the next round ceased, my body went slack. Blinking my eyes to try and see straight again, I found my torturer watching me. This time, he silently dared me to stay quiet. I had to, so he didn’t even bother to ask another question before more volts soared through my tiring body. My knees hadn’t even had a chance to straighten before that round. Pain exploded through my sides, leaving me a shaking mess, but once the volts stopped again, I forced my feet to carry me properly. He may have been rocking me physically, but my pride was still strong.

The president observed my determination before setting down his remote. I can’t lie and say I didn’t become nauseated when the next line of pain would come from a propane torch. He turned a knob, pulled the trigger, and we both watched the hot flame spit into the air between us.

Fuuuuuuuck this is going to hurt.

“Why did you kill my VP?” he asked, almost as if more interested in the flame.

This interrogation was not for revenge. It was for intel.

I gulped, attempting to swallow dread, as he took two steps toward me. Fire is fire. It burns, no matter who you are or what you’re made of, or what training you’ve received. This was going hurt. Yet, I was willing to lose flesh for Arthur, for Jade, and, even though I wasn’t prepared to admit it, for Ivy.

The chains rattled and clanked as my body, on its own accord, pulled from the heat searing my skin. I screamed! I wailed in the horror. Pain like no other, flesh melted from my side. The stench was powerful, but the mental anguish was even worse. If I failed, many lives were at risk. If I surrendered and gave up important information, how could I warn my fellow assassins that a mad man was headed for them?

The attacker told me, “You know what answers I want. Speak and this all ends.”

Even though I was beginning to faint, so desperately depleted, speaking wasn’t an option. Too much was at stake. Bors, don’t give up! Don’t you fucking dare!

Believe it or not, I wanted to cry. I wanted to beg for it to end. Ribs that were just now bruising from the beating I had experienced only hours earlier were now missing skin and meat. Sweat, due to the punishment I was enduring, dripped into the three open wounds that had been inflicted. I choked as the pain intensified as severe burns do.

So distracted in gut-wrenching misery, I had yet to speak—to tell secrets that were too precious to share. The president took my silence as disrespect and added to my nightmare. A rope was placed around my neck from behind. Many grunts echoed throughout the barren, cold, and lonely room as men pulled on the rope, lifting me up off the floor, the intertwined material mercilessly digging into the skin under my chin as it choked me. My hands flailed at the chains above my head in attempts to grab on and ease the pressure on my esophagus, but the way I was cuffed prevented a much-needed grip. Against my will, my body jolted, violently, when I ran out of air, spots dancing in my vision before all going black.

Splash! I gasped awake as water slapped my face and upper body. Blinking through the liquid, I quickly assessed I was still in the bare room and was still hanging from my wrists. Pure survival instinct and adrenaline had me back on my feet, ready to protect myself even though it was pointless. The rope tightened, the grunts began, and I slipped into unconsciousness, over and over again, only to be revived with a cold bucket of water.

It was exhausting, therefore extremely effective torture, but I said nothing.

Fatigued from lifting my two-hundred and thirty-five pounds into the air and holding it there until I yet again suffocated, they finally gave up and let me stay unconscious. I didn’t wake until the VP’s wife was bandaging my side. This time, I couldn’t get my feet to take my weight. My legs were far too wobbly, so my wrists, above my head, had to bear the brunt of keeping me upright. My voice was so scratchy, I barely recognized it as I mumbled, “Is she okay?”

Wise eyes peered up to me. “Jade or Ivy?”