Page 16 of Enemy of the Heart

“You’re headed home, and I’m off to clear my head.”

Sean

Jace was right. There was more where that waterboarding came from, and shit has only gotten worse from there.

The metal chains are so tight around my wrists that I’m sure my bones are bruising. I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been hanging from the ceiling. I’m completely naked, my cock and balls swinging freely between my legs. The ominous, unspoken threat that I could be castrated floats thickly in the air. I never would’ve done that to another man, but I’ve certainly implied malintent before. I’ve been praying to every god and demon above and below that’s what’s happening here. Although, a lot of things around here have changed in a short time.

I shift on my bare toes to alleviate the ache in my side. I’m severely dehydrated to the point that my organs throb. I haven’t been allowed more than three meager cups of water since I’ve been here—and I don’t know how long it’s been—and outside of that one meal Jace brought me, I haven’t been given anything else to eat. It doesn’t help that I think they’ve got the heat on in this room as I sweat out every last drop of moisture in my body.

Still, I’m alive, and that’s how I need to stay until Louhi can get here. I just hope I have all my…parts when she arrives. She wouldn’t be happy about that.

By the time the metal door swings open, I’ve lost all feeling in my hands. What’s the use in having opposable thumbs if I can’t use them again?

“How’s it hangin’?” Jennings, a guy who used to run patrols, quips. I glare at him in return. He’s always been a dick, but someone I was able to mostly avoid until now.

Jace and Major Thompson enter behind him. Jennings twirls the tactical knife in his hand as he approaches. Stepping up to me, he drags the point of his knife down my limp cock, and I grind my molars. “Damn, Digs, no wonder that girl ran off with you.”

He taps the head of my dick with the cheek of the knife, making me curl my lip. That girl deserves more respect. But I clamp my mouth shut, vowing to deal with him later.

The rules of the game he’s playing are simple: humiliate and incite fear. Keeping my mind clear and focused is the only way to win against psychological warfare.

“Quit playing with his dick,” Thompson barks over his shoulder as he enters the storeroom.

Jennings steps back, subtly rolling his soulless eyes. I glance at Jace, whose gaze gives nothing away. When Thompson reenters the playpen, I drop my head, not wanting to see what’s coming for me.

“You’re up,” the major snaps, and I sense my best friend draw near. Even blind, I could sense his presence; his aura is different from anyone else’s here.

I have no doubt that Jace’s loyalty is being ruthlessly tested. When my vision finally connects with his, I silently order him, do it.

A second later, his fist slams into my stomach, leeching me of oxygen. I cough, keeping my face stony, but flick my gaze back to him, signaling that I can handle this. To anyone else, it might appear as though I’m scowling at Jace. He’ll know better.

It’s easier coming from him anyway. He’s being strategic about where he’s landing his blows. I’m going to be a canvas of black and blue later, but nothing vital will be damaged.

He lands seven more punches: three to my abdomen, one to my ribs, two to my thigh, and one to the face. I’m drenched in sweat by the time he’s finished, and it’s begun to pool on the concrete beneath me.

“Care for a smoke?” Jennings offers Jace casually, who’s turned to face him, but the implication is anything but. My best friend’s rigid posture tells me he’s aware of the danger lurking in the veiled words as much as I am.

Thompson’s dark energy tracks every movement from his spot against the wall, waiting to see how this exchange will play out, likely hoping for the opportunity to string Jace up next to me.

To his credit, Jace doesn’t hesitate, extracting a cigarette from the offered box in Jennings’s hand and pulling out his Zippo to light it. He takes a drag, and smoke fills the chamber of the playpen as he exhales. I hope it relaxes him, but I have a feeling he’s going to need something stronger later to cope with what he’s about to do.

When he faces me again, I’m grateful for the mask he wears. I doubt he’s a good enough actor that he could pull this off with a straight face. I couldn’t.

A guttural groan vibrates in my throat the moment the lit cherry makes contact with my sweat-slicked skin as pain permanently brands my upper thigh. The perspiration makes the next three burns excruciating as it trickles into each wound and pools there.

“Fuck you,” I spit at my best friend, hoping that he translates my words as a plea to take me out of my fucking misery. He does; bringing his fist back and letting it fly at my face, handing me a ticket to peaceful unconsciousness.

I haven’t been permitted clothes since I was strung up to be a human punching bag. It’s all part of the twisted, fucked-up game of Break Sean’s Brain. After another few days of beatings, burnings, and brutal bullshit, I’m in my cell, waiting to endure my latest round of vile abuse. What I didn’t know was that the torture would be hand delivered to me this time.

Major Thompson and Jace appear at my cell with several more masked guards carrying a big-ass box between them.

Shit.

Double shit.

Triple shit.

Thompson opens my cell door, and the wooden crate is deposited on the floor. It’s so large that it takes up slightly more than half of the already tiny space in my cell. A guard forces me to my feet and against the wall, lest I end up partially under the box.