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“Then take up knitting.”
One of the men choked.
“The more disagreeable you are, the more techniques I’ll have the pleasure of testing. Pain. Shame. Pleasure. Fear. I’ll find what motivates you.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
“Mm, don’t worry, I intend to take yours.”
My stomach rolled.
“Today is only an assessment. Ciro wants your face to remain presentable for his little recording. Everything else belongs to me.”
She must’ve noticed something—a change in my breathing, a muscle tensing—because satisfaction had slipped into her voice.
Her amusement didn’t matter. What Mouse heard next did.
Mouse had listened while Ciro interrogated me, and I was certain she was listening again from somewhere behind the walls. She’d defied him to bring me water because she believed I might help her escape. Now I needed to show her what kind of man I was. That pain wouldn’t make me obey and this woman couldn’t strip away my strength.
Mouse wasn’t stupid enough to expect silence from a man being tortured. She needed only proof that I wouldn’t surrender.
If she was going to stake her life on me, I had to give her a reason.
The tip of what I guessed was a crop tapped beneath my chin again.
“Chin up, boy.”
I didn’t move.
The leather struck harder.
“Up, I said.”
I kept my head down.
She snapped her fingers.
Pedro’s hand closed in my hair and wrenched my head back. Pain shot across my scalp and down my neck as the chair creaked beneath the sudden force.
“Remove the blindfold. I want to see those pretty green eyes again.”
He released my hair and worked the knot loose.
The end of the crop traveled down my chest and tapped the fly of my pants.
“Such beautiful emeralds,” she murmured. “All my other boys have dark eyes. I’ll enjoy having your adoring eyes on me once you learn to behave.”
The cloth fell away, and light stabbed through my skull.
White glare washed across my vision. I squeezed my eyes shut, then blinked until shapes began to emerge. The room swam into focus one piece at a time as I turned my head and took in the men around me.
Isabella stood directly in front of me with her black hair slicked into a severe bun. She was decked out in camouflage fatigues and black combat boots.
She’d dressed like a soldier. Too bad she didn’t have the guts to fight like one.
Mateo—the deep voice from behind my left shoulder—stood near a worktable that ran along one wall. He was older than the other two and broad through the chest, with dark clothing that was plain and practical. His hands rested behind his back, and his expression revealed nothing.
Pedro remained beside me. He was short and thickly built, with scars crossing the knuckles of his hands. He looked like a man accustomed to carrying out orders with his fists.
