Squeak. Squeak.

“Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“That sound? Was that a rat?”

The other man grunts. “Who cares?”

“Rat’s carry disease.”

“Really? You’re worried about one stupid rat in the middle of the desert?”

“Fuck you.”

“I prefer fecking your mother, ya maggot.”

There’s a brief scuffle, ending with the hissed words, “You’d better get the bitch to talk, otherwise we’ll see how much you don’t care about rats when Maddoc puts you in a hole with a hungry one.”

Footsteps pound up the stairs. The door slams, taking light with it. The second set of feet shuffle around the wall near the stairs.

Squeak.

“Jaysus,” he mutters, and finally finds the light switch.

The little hanging bulb in the center of the room flickers on. I watch him approach. He doesn’t look happy to be here. Squatting before me, he wrinkles his nose at my stench.

“Lass, time’s running out.”

“For both of us,” I croak.

Chris nods, lips thinned. “Aye. I erred when I let Elizabeth run, thinking you were the greater asset. But I still think you know where the diamonds are. You know why?”

I roll my eyes, pretty much the only protest I’m capable of at this point.

“I think you know exactly where they are, but you’ve been misled into thinking you’re protecting someone. And I don’t think that someone is your mother.”

His eyes narrow, penetrating and dangerously perceptive. I’m afraid if he keeps digging, he’ll hit the mark.

I suck air into my tired lungs. “I’ve told you a million times, I don’t know where these diamonds you keep talking about are. Elizabeth left me the USB stick and some cash. That’s it.” My voice is barely recognizable, my vocal chords damaged by too much screaming and not enough water.

“You’ve got to give me something else.”

I drop my head to the wall behind me. The shift makes the chains around my ankles clank. My hands are still free, but it doesn’t mean anything. Not anymore.

Six of my fingers are broken. I’d had to reset them myself, splinting them as best I could with strips of my ratty t-shirt. Thankfully, no bones broke through the skin, lowering my risk of infection, and the swelling seems to be going down. I have to hand it to him—he definitely knows his way around torture techniques.

I consider his face. The tired eyes, pinched mouth. “Hard working for a psychopath, isn’t it?” I rasp.

He closes his eyes briefly. “I don’t like hurting you, Eden,” he murmurs, a rare note of appeal in his voice. “Please, don’t make me.”

“Because I look like her,” I whisper. “I look just like her. Is she okay? Tell me, please. Is she safe?”

I’ve asked the question a thousand times, and he’s never given me an answer. Now, though, there’s a softening in his eyes I haven’t seen before. I wonder if it’s because he knows I’m going to die soon. Or whether some part of him—willing or not—has come to respect me.

I haven’t broken.

Not when he held a flame to the bottom of my feet and inner thighs. Not when my head was forced repeatedly into a bucket of water until I nearly drowned. Not when he didn’t let me sleep for four days. When he starved me. Blinded me with a spotlight. When he strung me upside down from the pipes, or used a cattle prod, or broke a few of my ribs and nearly dislocated my shoulder during a particularly memorable beating.

Not when he threatened to rape me.

Not when he actually did.

I don’t have Stockholm syndrome. Not even close. If I could watch him being burned alive I’d laugh the entire time and roast marshmallows.

But I can’t deny that we have an affinity for each other. A closeness I can’t describe or understand. Just as he knows I have the information he wants, I know he hasn’t enjoyed what he’s done to me. There’s a reason I don’t have any lasting damage—not externally, at least. Why my hands and feet are still attached. Why I haven’t bled or been disfigured. Why he hasn’t let anyone else touch me.

We are each doing what we have to do. Neither of us have a choice.

Chris bows his head momentarily. When he looks up, at long last I see my death in his eyes. Here is where the real pain begins. I’ll break—I have no doubt—but first, I want the truth.

“Why did you wait six years?” I whisper hoarsely.

“You were protected by the Rourke name.”

The news confirms a suspicion I’ve harbored for years, but it also means something changed, something that dissolved the Rourke shield. I don’t have the courage to ask what happened, but Chris answers anyway.

“There was an internal coup in the organization in Dublin. The Rourkes are no more—the lot of them executed.” He shrugs. “They had a good run. Better to go out that way than rotting in cells.”

I whisper, “Liam?”

Chris sighs. “He’s dead, lass. He’s not coming. He never was. If you just tell me where the diamonds are, I swear to you I’ll make it swift.”

I only stare at him, too tired. Too weak. Too empty. If the sun has set, I want to follow it into the dark.

“Don’t, Eden,” he says tightly. “She isn’t worth this.”

Alexis.

I close my eyes.

Chris touches my face gently, a stroke of fingertips. “For whatever it’s worth, you’ve done him proud, dove.”

The word doesn’t mean what it used to. It’s stained now. As broken as I will be soon.

But I know he’s right.

Liam would be proud.

* * *

Who needs perfect skin, anyway? Not me, because my back is missing some and I’m still alive. A fact that will hopefully be remedied as soon as Chris ends his phone call. Apparently the person calling wasn’t someone he could ignore—even though we were sort of in the middle of something.

“Pretty rude, if you ask me,” I tell Squeaker.

My little friend is perched on a pipe above me, near where my hands are bound in thick rope. Above a twitching nose, beady black eyes are fixed on me. Well, on where the scent of blood is originating. I might find out what it feels like to be nibbled on, after all.

The pain is a burning poison in my mind. A poison with waves. Peaks and troughs. My poor endorphins can’t keep up with the shifting tide. For the moment, at least, I feel little beyond the slide of blood down my naked skin.

Brief detours into unconsciousness are a relief. I float between a red haze and searing light. Was there a time when pain was pleasure? I don’t remember anymore. There is only pain. Thoughts dance in my mind, their routines truncated.

Rope on my wrists. Liam’s voice... Do you serve? Hot hands on my hips, sliding down my legs… A promise. I will keep you safe. What is the truth? She isn’t worth it. Yes, she is. Isn’t she? Or is this the price of my blood?

Ripples in the sea of pain. A rising wave. I groan, and a voice says, “Hold still.” The tone is low, icy with fury. All I feel is relief—he’s back. He’ll put an end to my suffering.

The pressure in my shoulders and arms releases. Gravity claims me, but when I expect cement floor instead there are hard arms. My back flares in agony. My whimper is a pitiful extension of my inner scream.

I pass out, awaken to movement. Pass out again. Awaken. Open my eyes. Try to. I see nothing. I’m not awake. There’s nothing.

Is this death?