Page 96 of Iron Roses

The side of her face is swollen. A bruise along her cheekbone purples beneath the skin, raw around the eye. Her lip is split at the corner.

She leans slightly to one side. Her legs don’t track evenly. The skin above her socks—just at the ankle—shows a blistered patch, the skin taut, reddened, shiny at the edges.

Her hands hang by her sides. They don’t tremble. But her knuckles are scraped, dried blood still clinging to the edge of one nail.

Her eyes lift. They meet mine. And she steps inside

Chapter Sixteen – Elaria

Day 1

The rusted lock jerks free, and the door of the cage swings open.

Hands reach in. My arms are yanked forward, dragging my body out like dead weight. The metal floor shifts beneath me, the sea lurching the room slightly to the left. My bare foot scrapes along the edge of the threshold—skin splitting, a raw line torn across the arch.

The floor creaks under us. The boat rocks just enough to twist the movement. I try to brace, but my limbs are dull with exhaustion.

The edge of my foot scrapes against the metal lip of the cage. They drag me down the corridor. Wet wood beneath, damp air pressing from all sides. The hallway narrows near the bulkhead, then widens again into the galley.

Fausto is there.

He stands at the center of the room, hands folded behind his back, the sea coiling behind him through the portholes—gray, endless. The sunlight fractures across the waves, throwing pale slashes against the walls.

He doesn’t look at me immediately.

The men yank the chair forward. Thick wood, bolted legs. My arms are pulled behind me and strapped at the wrists. Therope cuts into skin already split. One loop crosses a burn from yesterday. I feel the pulse in it, the warmth of an infection beginning.

My legs are forced flat against the slats, ankles bound.

They wheel something forward.

A small brazier, old and blackened from use. Its iron mouth yawns open, flames already dancing low inside. Thin blue-orange tongues snap from between the grates, controlled but hungry.

The man guiding it nudges the base under the chair—stopping just short of my heels.

My toes curl on instinct. I don’t mean them to.

Fausto watches it happen. Then finally looks at me.

His head tilts. He steps closer, as though we’re still at the villa, still seated over wine.

I look straight ahead. The heat starts to lift—creeping. It licks the soles of my feet first.

Skin begins to tighten. My breath pulls shallow.

He crouches beside me. Reaches up. His hand is smooth.

The slap comes. My cheek splits on the inside.

He hits me again. Then again.

My head jerks to one side. Blood pools between my gums. I swallow it.

He waits for a sound. I give him nothing.

Fausto’s smile deepens.

He stands. Brushes his hands against his trousers.

---