Turning Tables

I felt the cold in my bones, sharper than the bruises I had. My wrists burned where the ropes bit into my skin, and it hurt. The taste of blood filled my mouth, and I spit it out. I bet he was watching with joy.

Cillian stood just a few feet away, arms crossed, his dark eyes boring into me. I couldn't look at the fucker for too long-it felt like he could see everything I was trying to hide.

"You think this is justice?" I rasped, my voice hoarse from the hours of silence I had forced upon myself.

"This isn't justice," he said, his voice low, controlled. "This is a start."

I flinched as one of his men stepped forward, the faint hum of electricity filling the air as he held the device in his hand. My stomach twisted, but I forced my breathing to stay steady.

"Again," Cillian ordered, his voice sharp and cold.

The first jolt came fast. Fuck! Pain was lancing through my side as the prod made contact. My body convulsed involuntarily, my teeth grinding together to keep from crying out. I stayed silent.

"Nothing?" he asked, stepping closer. Yes, I'll give you nothing you piece of shit! His tone was mocking, but his eyes were calculating, watching every twitch of my body. "I'm waiting for a scream."

Another jolt hit me, this time against my leg. No! Everything hurts! My foot jerked against the floor, my chest tightening with pain. My breath came in shallow gasps, but I didn't scream. I won't.

"You're quieter than I expected," Cillian said, crouching in front of me. "You didn't hold back when it was me in that chair."

His words hit me in the face. He wasn't wrong. I had been cold, cruel, everything my father wanted me to be. I had smiled and pretending to relish the sound of his screams. But I wasn't smiling now, and I didn't really enjoy it then. It was all a show.

I lifted my chin, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "Then stop talking and finish it."

The corner of his mouth twitched in a smile. "Not yet," he said, standing abruptly. "We're not done."

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