Page 51 of Enemy of the State

Past the burning cinders, deep within the recesses of its ivory cage, my heart weeps. Shoving the ache aside, I focus my attention on my fury, letting it fuel my fire instead.

Thinking I could trust anyone other than myself was a mistake—a mistake that appears will cost me dearly.

My anger blazes more intensely than the pyre I’m dreaming ofplacing Digs atop, my lip curling as I imagine the smell of his flesh charring, smoldering until there’s nothing but bones left.

It won’t be enough.

Up until now, I’ve gotten the impression that Digs’s sadistic tendencies were physical, not so much psychological. But I can’t presume to know him at this point, so what if I got that bit wrong? What if I goteverythingwrong? What if my gut finally let me down?

My thoughts buzz like a hive of crazed wasps as one of the men slices into my shin lightly, just below my kneecap, and I hiss at the sharp sting. Another is made to my upper thigh, another to the backside of my shoulder.

Just like that, the bloodletting has begun.

Slice.

Cut.

Slash.

I bottle my screams as a gash is made on the top of my foot, a howl erupting within my chest that I trap there. My head slumps as I observe my blood dripping, falling, sliding onto the concrete. The same arsehole makes an identical cut on the top of my other foot, forcing the tears to begin sweeping down my face in a sheet of salty water.

How am I going to make it out of this?

Even as I close my eyes, trying to draw on the memory of the last time I saw my parents before their deaths, the pain seeps into my soul, blotting out the kiss my father pressed to my temple. Still, I try to recall my mother’s arms wrapped around me, tucking me in to her slender body, telling me they’d be back in time for dinner, but the panic and suffering keeps the memory just out of reach.

Desolation hurts as bad as pain, and in my desperation, I assess my situation, realizing that there’s no hope of escape, only to endure.

The cuts they’re making are shallow, but that’s how this whole thing works. These blokes clearly aren’t adhering to the traditional practice of Lingchi byremovingthe more insignificant pieces of myflesh, like my arms or legs, but the result is essentially the same: maximum pain and suffering before they extract more vital pieces from my body.

Pain, sorrow, rage, and betrayal are my only companions as they carve up my body. Even if, by some miracle, I am to survive this, I’ll be permanently marked with the agonizing memory of this experience, my body forever displaying the torture I endured.

Will Mercer be informed of my death? If he is, I hope he remembers to invite Conall and Viktor to my funeral.

Crouched before me, one of guards looks up, and I take the opportunity to memorize his hazel eyes, so that I’ll remember them in this lifetime and the next. Mentally, I vow to come back and make the deaths of these three far worse than mine. And once they’re dead, I’ll begin the cycle of retribution all over again in the afterlife, making sure these threerest with stress.

And then there’s Digs. I’ll play with him until he’sbeggingfor death, then I’ll make his eternal state of rest so fucking miserable that he won’t find a moment’s peace. He won’t know true agony until I’m finished with him, then I’ll begin again.

I’ll be so bloody busy with vengeance that I won’t even have time to suffer in Hell myself.

Hope springs eternal…until it doesn’t, and I’ve just about lost it. Only a few hours ago, I was plotting my escape, optimistic that I would get the bloody fuck out of here. Not so much anymore.

The slices are coming rapidly now. Over my stomach, back, across the side of my neck. A thin cut is made to the tops then below each of my breasts, drawing a whimper of excruciation and torment from me. It’s a plea for help, one brimming with emotional anguish.

For the first time in my life, my mortality surrounds me, closing in. I’m alone and scared. I’ve faced death and lived to tell the tale before, but now? Like this? Tied up with no way out, tortured and killed by blood loss and pain? I don’t know if I’ll survive that, so I release my anxiety, suffering, and loss in a bloodcurdling wail. Inthe first scream that I’ve allowed to slip from my lips tonight, I shriek for the life I’ll leave behind; I scream for the love I’ve never had and the days I’ll never see.

I scream forme.

They keep slashing until I’m covered in at least a hundred superficial cuts, some deeper than others, then they jostle me around so that the wounds seep blood and tear open. My eyes drift shut as I beckon death to whisk me away from this hell and escort me to the next.

“This is for Stuco,” one of them snarls as he drags the tip of his blade down the center of my chest, over my sternum. Though, I must be going into shock because an iciness crowds my senses, the pain lessening, and I hope that means the end is near.

Despondency rolls in like a dreary mist and takes up residence. Hanging my head, I attempt to increase the difficulty of pulling oxygen into my lungs, hastening death.

A violent roar cuts through the vacant static warbling in my ears, and I know without opening my eyes who it came from. I can sense him, despite the blackness creeping in. The air around me crackles and fizzes with his overwhelming presence. He must be here for the grand finale, but I don’t want to give him that satisfaction. Summoning every remaining molecule of strength within me, I peel my eyes apart and drag my thousand-pound head up, resting it against my bleeding arm as I regard the blue-eyed beast filling the open doorway.

Except, I don’t see a bright excitement looming in his irises as he watches me succumb to death. Instead, a dark hurricane swirls in his stormy eyes: shock, fear, and unrestrained fury spilling from every inch of him.

A whimper crawls up my throat, but I trap it there.

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