Chapter 121: The Prisoner’s Torment
"You’re loyal," Gabriel had said during the last session. "But even loyalty has a limit, Sterling."
Sterling’s lip split again when he smiled at the memory. He forced a laugh, but it was just air rattling over swollen vocal cords. He’d stopped screaming hours ago. There was no point. The stone swallowed sound, just as it devoured hope.
He closed his eyes. For a moment, he imagined the scent of pine and wet earth. The Callahan grounds after the rain. The scent of Camille’s hair when she leaned over maps late at night, tracing enemy lines with ink-stained fingers. Magnolia’s steady voice cutting through fear like a knife through silk. Rhett’s laugh, rare, but warm. Gods, how he’d give anything to hear it now.
A click of boots snapped him back.
The door scraped open. Torchlight bled across the floor, revealing the same masked man, Gabriel’s surgeon. He moved like a shadow, face hidden, gloves spotless. He carried the small tray with its neat tools: blade, tongs, the vial of something that burned when it touched the skin.
Sterling lifted his chin, though it trembled. His voice came out cracked, brittle. "Come to dance again?"
The masked man said nothing. He set down the tray on the crude wooden table and began to hum, a low, tuneless hum that crawled under Sterling’s skin more than any blade ever could.
"Go on, then," Sterling growled. "What piece are you taking today? Another finger? My tongue? Be quicker about it this time."
A gloved hand seized his jaw, wrenching it open. The surgeon peered in, as though studying a puzzle, then released him. He reached for the small vial, popped the cork, and let the thick, dark liquid drip onto Sterling’s chest wound.
Fire.
Sterling gasped as it seeped into the open cuts, burning cold then boiling hot, like a thousand wasp stings all fighting to burrow deeper. He bit back the scream, his vision swimming. He would not give them that. He would not give Gabriel the pleasure.