Page 97 of Iron Roses

“To the flames, then,” he says.

He nods to the man beside the box.

“Watch the fire. I want her to feel it. I don’t want her feet ruined.”

The man kneels. Adjusts a dial. The flame lowers, just enough to tease.

I feel the skin on the balls of my feet begin to tighten. Sweat prickles my temples. My shoulders strain against the ropes. My right foot kicks—reflex. The burn flares across the arch.

Fausto turns. Walks back to his place at the center of the room.

“When you’re ready to speak,” he says without looking back, “I’ll be here.”

The door closes behind him.

The two men retreat only a few paces—just enough to lean against the wall and watch. One folds his arms. The other lights a cigarette.

The flame beneath my feet stays steady. The pain changes.

At first, it was sharp. Like a warning. A burn small enough to resist.

Now it spreads.

The sensation seeps into the soft tissue of my feet, past skin, down to the nerves that scream with contact. The pads of my toes swell. The arch tightens. It feels like the heat is pushing into the marrow.

A sickly wetness forms between the ball of my foot and the plank beneath—sweat or the start of a blister rupturing.

The rope at my ankles pulls tighter each time my muscles jerk involuntarily. I try to hold still. It’s the only thing I can control.

A tremor runs up the backs of my calves.

I close my eyes and try to breathe through my nose. I try to listen.

The boat groans faintly with the tide. Waves slap against the hull. A seagull calls once, far away.

I focus on the rhythm. The pain pulses again.

A burn across the base of my foot, deeper. The nerve endings feel like they’re unraveling one by one.

I shift, reflexive. My heel lifts a fraction—then drops.

The searing shock of contact wrenches a sound from my throat. My teeth dig into the inside of my cheek. Another wave of heat presses upward.

This one doesn’t retreat. It lingers. Like fire crawling beneath the skin.

My vision blurs. I can’t tell if it’s sweat or tears. The salt stings the cracked corner of my mouth.

I try to breathe. A sound slips from my mouth but I bite it down.

I clench my fists behind the chair. My nails dig into my palms, reopening cuts. I bite harder. The next cry escapes anyway.

I drop my head forward, eyes locked on the floor. The wood beneath the brazier darkens with smoke.

The pain becomes a shape. It swells and breathes and presses against the edges of my skull, no longer confined to the body. It pulses in my ears, behind my eyes, a sound more than a feeling.

The skin on my feet is broken. I know it. I feel it. Blisters ruptured, flesh exposed, the raw nerve endings firing all at once.

And then—it stops.

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