Valon fell into his line of vision, blocking out some of the sunlight streaming in through the windows on either sides of the room.
He didn’t dare try to move, hours of agony had taught him very quickly that any tiny alteration in the way he hung caused the shredded muscle along his back to flare to life once more.
Still as vacant and unfeeling as before, Valon said, “Tell them what they want to know.”
He had been steadily working his way across Niklaus’ back, starting at the tops of his shoulders, carving long, fluid lines down to the small of his back. Unlike his counterpart—who seemed to enjoy Niklaus’ pain a little too much—Valon rarely made any noise at all, and didn’t give any indication as to whether or not this thrilled him.
Had he been in this place so long that he had begun to hope that it was Valon torturing him as opposed to the other? Was he choosing between two levels of pain?
Time passed in waves. He could no longer tell what day it was, or how long he had suffered under the onslaught of torture, but through it all, Niklaus was thankful that all their attention seemed to be focused solely on him. Sarah mostly had to watch him suffer, it was far better than her being hung alongside him.
“Still don’t want to talk?” Valon’s associate called out. “Then we’ll try something new.”
New?
What more could they do to him that hadn’t already been done? But even as his mind ran wild with possibilities—even as he fought the darkness that threatened to pull him under—he heard it.
Sarah’s whimper.
Fighting to keep his eyes open, to stay conscious, Niklaus shook his head, weakly, trying to force his head around. “Don’t…don’t touch her.”
But his words were as weak as his body.
He tried to stay conscious.
He needed to, for her sake.
But even as he heard the sound of ripping fabric…the sound of Sarah screaming behind her gag…he was sucked right back under.
* * *
At some point, Niklaus had been moved, transferred from the hook back to his chair. It felt like he had lost another day, drifting in and out of consciousness. His stomach ached with hunger, his mouth terribly dry, but those baser needs were the last things on his mind as the agony of his wounds kept his full attention—he had grown to ignore the knives still imbedded in his flesh.
He was lost, stuck in a place where he was just slightly aware of his surroundings, but immune to the pain he was in, at least until a bucket of cold water was thrown on him, bringing him back to focus.
The pain came rushing back almost instantly, enough to nearly take his breath away, sparking over every nerve-ending until he was gritting his pain to get through it. Valon dropped the bucket and moved back.
“Your time is up,” Jetmir announced as he crossed the room, his first time back in this place since Niklaus was brought in.
Though Niklaus wasn’t looking at him, he knew the man carried something heavy, the liquid inside sloshing around before the container was set down. Once Jetmir was beside him, he fisted Niklaus’ hair, forcing his head up, and with the action, Niklaus finally saw Sarah.
The sight of her was worse than anything they could have ever done to him.
She was bruised all over in varying shades of healing. Gone was the beautiful girl that had been laughing with joy as they explored the city, replaced by someone he hardly recognized. Makeup was smeared all over her face, her clothes gone, leaving her stark naked, and though he wished he hadn’t, Niklaus’ eyes zeroed in on the blood coating her thighs.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
She hung her head, never once looking at him, but he thought he saw a tear drop onto her leg.
“I have given you ample opportunity—more than if we are being honest—to tell me of your business and the men you intend to meet in a few days’ time, but you have continued to defy me. To what end, only you can know. Perhaps it is the Russian way?” Jetmir released his hold on Niklaus. “What more must be done before you break?”
Blinking more water from his eyes, Niklaus looked to him, noticing the black lighter he held in his left hand, an engraving he couldn’t make out on its onyx casing. A sliver of anxiety shot through Niklaus each time Jetmir flipped the top back, igniting the flame to flicker in the darkness of the room. He had long since stopped begging, knowing that he would never get out of the room alive. But he had never stopped begging for Sarah…at least from what he could remember before his body gave out on him.
“Tell me what I want to know,” Jetmir said, his tone soothing for once, the same request that had been demanded of Niklaus since entered this place.
No matter how vehemently Niklaus denied any knowledge of what they were talking about, none of them were convinced he was not the person they sought.