Page 114 of Serpent & Saviors

“How long will he last? Does being good at holding your breath help?” Pasha asked.

“It might if your body wasn’t in fight-or-flight mode. As it stands, the minute his head hits the water, his instincts will kick in. Right now, he seems like a beaten animal crawling like a good boy to take his punishment. It won’t last, which I’m grateful for. It’s not fun to torture someone who won’t fight back. Let’s see if he is as strong as my angel.”

Going into this torture session, I knew this would be the hardest part. Having had the unfortunate experience of being drowned myself, I wasn’t entirely sure I could see it through. That was where Pasha came in. I cocked my head to the side, and Pasha grabbed Cameron by the back of his shirt and pulled him over to the edge.

Shutting the water off, I spoke, “Let’s begin. Your job is to hold him under until I say release.”

A resounding chuckle sounded throughout the room as Cameron immediately put his hands on the edges of the tub to brace himself. He began an earnest struggle, but the muscles in Pasha’s forearms flexed, and soon Cameron’s nose was touching the water.

“Hold him right there for a second.” I walked over and crouched down. “The minute your face is fully submerged is when the clock starts ticking. With each passing second, you will become more and more aware that you’re running out of air. You’ll feel the agony and burn. Let’s give you a small taste. Dancer.” I nodded.

With a grin unlike anything I’d ever seen grace his face, Pasha locked eyes with Sebastian, and he dunked Cameron brutally into the water. The struggle began. Water sploshed out as it enveloped him. Pasha used a relentless force to hold him under. About forty-five seconds in, I called Pasha’s name. He yanked him out, and Cameron sucked in air.

“Oh, the gift of air. It’s a wonderful thing, isn’t it? Enjoy it, for it is only for a second or two. Next time, I’m going to make sure you are under a little longer. Did you know that no matter how you thrash or how desperate you become, your body will not inhale until you’re on the verge of losing consciousness?”

Cameron’s terrified eyes looked into mine. The red lipstick Isabella had painted his face with reminded me of the locker room incident when he’d used a red marker on me. Poetic.

“So you’re saying there is a possibility he will inhale?” Pasha asked.

My gaze flicked to Pasha, grateful for the jolt back to reality. “Yes, there is going to come a moment when there is only carbon dioxide in his blood and only bare traces of oxygen left.” I kicked Cameron for good measure and called his name.

Once I had his attention, I spoke again, “In fact, a chemical sensor in your little brain will trigger an involuntary breath, even if your worthless face is still underwater. It’s called a breakpoint. Let’s test yours. Again, Dancer.”

This time, muffled pleas hit the air before his face was shoved under. “Stupid fool. Lost half his breath with that pleading shit,” Ivan scoffed.

There was an intense fight going on, water sploshing around as Cameron flayed about. Pasha held him under with an ease. He wasn’t even breaking a sweat. His muscles bulged and flexed.

“Well, he was never the smart one. Counselor, what is the average breaking point?” Alek asked, curiosity laced in his voice.

Part of me knew he was asking because it gave me space to think of this clinically. I was ever mindful of Cameron’s body and the amount of thrashing he was doing. And I checked my watch. Seventy-five seconds in, I nodded to Pasha. He yanked him back up. This time, the gasping and sputtering were more labored. We’d been close.

“Maybe we should have you repeat the question, Reaper. This time so Cameron can hear.”

I waited as Alek smirked. With a nod, he repeated the question.

“Most breaking points come at about eighty-six or eighty-seven seconds in. And on your next dunking, we’ll test it out.”

Cameron choked out some sounds that sounded an awful lot like, “No, please.” He was staring at Pasha.

I yanked his hair to get his full attention, shutting off the compassion my regulated self normally operated under. An image of my sweet girl fighting for her life in this very basement just a few short weeks ago played on repeat. There was no room for softness.

I leaned in close enough to feel the ragged heat of his breath against my cheek. His eyes were wild and unfocused. “Lisen closely, asshole. I want you to know what’s going to happen next.”

My fingers tightened, and he tried to recoil, but there was nowhere to go. His chest hitched, muscles trembling as his body struggled to keep up with the fear playing out in front of him.

“Your brain, despite its smallness, has what we’ll call a neurological optimism button. Your brain will get so fucking desperate that it will tease you with the idea that holding your breath is what’s killing you.”

The smell of burned flesh lingered in the air, and every shallow inhale he managed came with a wet, panicked sound.

“It will convince you, whisper like a long-lost lover, that breathing might not be so bad. It will taunt you to the brink and before you know it.” I paused long enough for his imagination to do the work for me. His shoulders jerked, and a thin, broken sound came next.

“Your mouth will open and involuntarily you will breathe.” I leaned in closer, my mouth near his ear, my grip unyielding. “Again,” I whispered.

Pasha moved immediately, gripping him by the collar and hauling him forward. Cameron barely had time to suck in air. But at least this time he didn’t waste it. Water spilled over the porcelain edge, the muffled sounds of panic breaking. I watched the second hand on my watch tick.

When the time hit eighty-eight seconds, Cameron was yanked up once more. I signaled Pasha to let him go. Cameron slumped over the tub, hands gripping the sides. He gasped for breath, floundering in his weakened state. A complete contrast to that day when I burst through the door.

The gagging and sputtering made me believe he’d inhaled some water on that last one.