He stiffened as my hands drifted toward the lever he’d used so often. Words tumbled from his mouth. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry for asking so much of you when I knew you struggled. I’m sorry for hurting Jasmine. I’m sorry for what I did to Nila. Fuck, Jet, I’m sorry.”
“Not good enough.” Curling my fingers around the sweat-polished wood of the lever, I murmured, “I think we can do better than that.”
My muscles bunched as I pushed on the mechanism. The first crank sounded like the gates of hell opening up, groaning and howling as ancient wood slipped into motion after so long.
“Wait!” Cut wriggled as the leather slowly tightened around his wrists and ankles. “Listen to my thoughts. Pay attention. I’m telling the truth.”
The sad thing was hedidspeak the truth. He honestly was sorry. He burned with apologies and willingly took possession of everything he’d done.
But it wasn’t enough to be sorry. He had to wish he’d never done it in the first place.
Taking a ragged breath, fighting through my weakness and fever, I cranked the lever again. The cogs and prongs slipped into place, welcoming each twist. Ducking over Cut, I pressed a little harder, pulled a little tighter. “Ready to grow a few inches?”
Cut squeezed his eyes. “Please...”
“You don’t get to beg.” I jerked the lever, pushing a full rotation.
The rack obeyed, separating beneath him, pulling Cut’s extremities into agonising tightness. The skin on his hands and feet stretched like an accordion played to maximum, turning his flesh red as it yanked him in two directions.
Cut screamed.
I pushed again.
The table fought Cut’s body, snarling against the unwilling tension, causing him to stretch beyond natural comfort.
He screamed louder.
My ears rang and my condition spluttered as too many thoughts collided in Cut’s head. I felt sick for becoming this monster—a beast willingly taking my father’s pain. But at the same time, I felt redeemed—as if I’d finally become the man Cut wanted me to be and only now deserved his praise.
“Tight enough for you?” My question was hidden in Cut’s groans as I pressed the lever once more.
The shifting parts of the rack obeyed, slipping further apart, tearing a few ligaments, cutting into my father’s flesh with its leather cuffs.
Cut didn’t scream again, but a feral cry fell from his lips. His face scrunched up as his skin shocked white with agony. His back arched, hisshoulders pulled tight and toes pointing. His hands remained fisted, his fingernails digging into his palms as his body fought to stay together.
I knew what he felt—not because I sensed him, but because I’d been in the exact position he had. I’d been tighter. I’d been younger. His shoulders would be the first to give out. They would pop from position in order for his joints to fight a little longer against the strain. Once the shoulders went, other joints would follow. Depending on how tight the rack stretched, knees would dislocate, tendons would snap, muscles would shred, and bones would break.
This form of torture had been one of the worst used in medieval times—and not just for the victim in the rack’s embrace but for the victims watching it. The sickening rip of body parts giving up the fight. The horrifying pops of joints coming apart.
Confessions were willingly given just waiting for their turn.
Would I go that far?
Would I tear Cut slowly into pieces, tightening his noose until his limbs quit fighting and just disintegrated?
Could I be that cold-hearted and merciless?
Let’s find out.
My palms drenched with sickening sweat as I pushed one last time on the lever. The table cracked, the leather squeaked, and Cut convulsed with cries. “Fuck, stop. God, what d—do you want? Stop—”
“I want nothing from you.” Locking the table from loosening, I removed my hands from the rack. His sockets were at breaking point. For now.
It was amazing how nimble the human body was. An hour in that position and cartilage would slowly snap, tendons stretch, and bones bellow for relief. But once freed, the body would knit back together. It would take time to realign the spinal column and soothe the blistering tears inside, but the long-term effects would be nil.
I knew.
I was walking proof.
