Torture (Siren Book 2)

Torture
(Siren #2)

Katie de Long

Love is pain.

Calder Roane has always been the spoiled youngest son, and is struggling to seize the reins to the family business following his mother's death. But when he wakes up imprisoned in a rusted death trap with several others, it's gonna take everything he has to get out alive. As the mystery unfolds and he tries to discover why he's
there
, a vulnerable and resourceful fellow prisoner could be the key.
If
he can win Milla's heart.

Under other circumstances, Camilla Greenwich would've grown up as Winchester royalty, born to a life of politics and privilege. But when the Roane family took her family's place, their actions corrupted the entire community, and cost Milla everyone she loved. Now, she has the chance of the lifetime: the chance to punish the heir to the Roane family empire, and those who've abetted him. But seizing that chance could well be her undoing. She'll have to get far closer to her enemy than she dreamed possible, and risk exposing herself. She'll have to become prey, alongside him.

As her war goes on and the collateral damage mounts, they're about to discover how deep the conspiracy runs. Each past sin is exposed, and in the end, they may be the only people who can redeem each other.

Dedication

For the crazy bastard who side-eyes me every time the answer to “What'd you do today,” is “Wrote mechanically assisted murder masturbation,” and who hasn't DIY lobotomized me yet. For the Divas who didn't look at me like I was crazy, and for Sera, who encouraged me to at least
draft
the darkest, most warped version possible of any given scene, just to see if it worked.

Torture (Siren #2)

At first, it seemed easy. Capture those who've profited from our suffering, and let
them
suffer. Let them starve, or fall, or burn. But ever since I entrapped Calder Roane, my plans have gone to shit. He's too clever by half, and unless I pretend to suffer by his side, his death will be meaningless, unwitnessed. But how can I stay by his side when he's so close to seeing through me?

Maybe it's an urge to lead, his urge to comfort. But with his attention on me more and more persistently, I'm walking a knife's edge playing to his expectations. If I push him away, he might discover I'm the reason he's in this deathtrap. But do I dare pull him closer, when his gentlest touch inspires revulsion?

Chapter One

Milla Greenwich, Present Day

“I never saw myself as a killer.” My low voice doesn’t rouse Calder. He’s out of it. I’m safe enough for honesty.

“I never meant it to go this far. I never meant to learn the give of a knife sinking into flesh. I never saw myself watching a man’s face as the light in it died, as his eyes went sightless and glassy. I saw myself as, well, not a tool of
god
, persay, because god has better things to do than fuck around with the little people, but close enough. An agent of fate or karma, working from a distance, pulling the strings, but never seeing her hands dirtied and slick with blood.

“I’d expected to feel… I don’t know…
something
. Guilt, or remorse. Even adrenaline. But instead there’s nothing. The only time something bleeds through is when you touch me. When you touch me, I know the enormity of it. All of the pain, and the horror, and the disgust. The frustration of deceiving you.

“You think you care for me, but you don’t
know
me. You don’t know where I’ve been. How can you love someone who’s more a reflection of you than a complete version of
themself?

“Only seeing myself through your eyes, seeing where you went wrong, could I
truly
know who I am. I am a monster. I am exactly who I chose to be. Exactly what I wanted to be.”

Calder’s breath hitches. He’s having a nightmare again. I only have a few minutes left.

“I’m not going to ask for your forgiveness. Even if you could give it, it wouldn’t help. For what I’ve done—what I
will
do—I deserve to bear some remorse. Because my ability to feel guilt, my ability to torment myself, it’s what separates us. Did you ever wonder what you were doing or why? Did you ever look at your family, and say ‘I have to get away from these people before they poison my soul?’ No. You kept quiet, and played your role.

“I may be a monster stained by her victims’ blood, but I’ll let you in on a secret:
you
aren’t any different. The only difference is your hands are clean.” And pretty. With callouses and quiet strength. Calder’s got the kind of hands to set a woman’s blood alight, and make her body hum with joy. I rest my hand over his.

“I wish you were
always
the man that you were with me. I wish I didn’t know what was beneath the surface, and could believe in your goodness. Sometimes, I see these flashes, and I just
know
—you’re a man a woman could love. Die for. Kill for. Go to hell for. It’s a charade. We both know that you belong here, same as me.”

I slide away from him, bracing his head with my hands so I can ease my leg out from under him. He can’t see me alive, can’t see the full picture that I whisper to him in the wee hours of the morning, as his companions sleep and he tosses and turns with nightmares.

“It’s kinder that I’m dead to you. That you never know who’s pulling the strings. And it’s kinder to me. This—
us
—it shouldn’t exist. We both deserve all the pain I can heap upon us. And mark my words, Calder—
there will be pain
.”

Chapter Two

Milla
, seven months ago…

Of all the emotions boiling under my skin, I can't decide which takes primacy. Every time I turn, Calder Roane's eyes are on me, and I have to fight harder to hide the range of them. Fear, anger—sure, he'll expect those. Detachment or depression he could expect too, were I inclined to pretend I felt either. But the things he won't expect to see are joy, exhilaration, or pride. And those are the hardest to conceal.

Their shrieks, the fast patter of their voices, as they fought to find a way out of the trap I'd built for them. I'd given them one hint, which was unavoidable since I hadn't originally planned to be there. But once I had a vantage point where, unless they pulled me down from it, I wasn't gonna die, there was no reason to prompt them more. Only Calder's reasoned leadership got them out intact. Or, mostly intact anyways. I'll have one corpse to clean up off the floor if I want any quiet strolls through the area again. But it's a tossup whether it's worth the effort. After all, it's a tiny dead-end room that I'm probably not in a hurry to venture into anyways.

Speak of the devil, he's staring at me again, his pale eyes unreadable.

I face him down as I would any creeper fresh to the work crews, crushing on the fairest of the old hands: directly. “You got a problem with me?”

“What?
No.
” He breaks eye contact, and shrugs apologetically.

Denise and Allen, our remaining companions, both look up, concerned about the escalating tension between us.

What I want is to whoop, to make my way back to the room Alex died in, inhale the smoky air, now that the torches would have run out of fuel. But I have to wait until they're sleeping to show my true self. And Calder seems to found a renewed devotion to his role as makeshift leader; he's done his damndest to get us sleeping in shifts. Someone always breaks, here or there, during my watches, and those have been the moments I've stolen to drug them and sneak food in here. I called in sick to work again—I might have to call in sick with Mono, if it stretches any longer, to explain the longer-than-average absence. No one's looking for me out there, but I still don't want to be gone too long. If this group wakes up and I'm not there, it'll lead to questions, at best, or violence, at worst.

I don't dare come in here unarmed, though I'm careful to let none of them know I have a switchblade with me.

They have plenty of reason to kill me, if they even suspect
I'm
the one behind this; after all, there's no doubt now that their faceless enemy's been trying to kill
them
. I don't think any of them have the balls for it; they prefer to hurt people whose faces they never have to see.

But it's not the nature of the conflict.

Calder's making an effort to
not
look at me, now, only that aversion leads him to stare above my right shoulder. His eyes widen, and he reaches for the little first-aid box, needing something sturdy.

Allen follows his eyes. I don't need to look to know what they're seeing, but I remind myself I should, anyways, as part of the act.

High on the wall, atop a different pipe, a beady red eye—how I originally thought I'd be watching their fight for survival.

But not the first one they've found and destroyed. That's why I'm here. And so long as they keep disabling them, I have to stay here, where I can witness with my own two eyes. It's not what I'd prefer, but given the choice between spending some more time pretending to be one of these parasites and witnessing their comeuppance, and waiting safe in my control room, in my own hungry company, and missing every detail of their deaths... There's no choice.

The others are preoccupied throwing everything they can find, from the cooler and first-aid kit, to their own half-burned shoes. I need an excuse to avoid participating.

Calder notices me again for a moment, as the first-aid box crashes near me, having failed to dislodge the camera. So I seize on the first suspicion-defusing measure I can think of: playing the victim.

I clench my hands, tightly enough that my wrists and arms shake, and widen my eyes, jumping with every impactful noise. For safe measure, I widen my eyes, and fixate on the camera as the next shoe knocks it loose, and they scramble to where it falls, to make sure it's duly broken.

Calder lets them finish the destruction. Apparently my act worked, because he hooks his arm around my shoulders, and rubs my arms until I let the shakes ease. “You okay, Mil?”

I want to slit his throat for shortening my name that way—it's only one step up from the hated “Millie”, which only my family and one privileged mentor were allowed to use, but which almost all of my coworkers have used since, over my objections. But I put the emotion aside—my feelings are the least important in this. So long as he pays for the lives his family has bankrupted, ended, or cast aside, I can deal with a few casual irritations.

“I'm—I'm fine.”

“You've been snapping at
everything
.”

“And you haven't been?
Fuck
, you're freaking me out, staring.”

He moves a strand of hair behind my ear, and his proximity spurs me to glare, need to blend in or no. “Sorry—I just, I worry about you guys. The others, well, I see how they are.” It's kind of hard not to. Denise's hands haven't stopped shaking, and her limp is fairly pronounced. And Allen, well, he's taken to staring at me with a fierce hunger that makes me
extremely
glad for my secret blade. I know the look of a man craving a woman's touch when I see it, and I know well that how hard I've pushed them has removed some of the social restraints. I sincerely doubt Calder would be okay touching a strange woman as much as he touches me, in any other circumstance.

Still, it's a line of questioning he shouldn't pursue. “So—what—you think I'm the weak link?” I jerk myself away from him, and storm to the other end of the room. Barely visible around the pipes running through the center of the room, he shakes his head in bemusement.

It won't keep him away long; there's no such thing as privacy here, although there's one corner designated as the “no spy zone”, for... personal matters. Not that it prevents everyone else from hearing it, or seeing it out of the corner of their eyes if they're too close, but it's something.

If there's one thing I've learned about Calder from the time we've spent together—something that would
never
have happened in the real world—it's that when he sees a problem, he hammers it from every angle he can until he fixes it. In another world, that quality would have made him a superb engineer, or architect. Someone who could construct the plans that make the machines that make the world go 'round
live
. Someone I could admire for it.

Not someone I've promised to kill.

*              *              *

A short time later, a room-temperature bottle of water's shoved under my nose, clenched a little too tightly in strong, masculine fingers. Even though I've been aware of Calder's approach, I glance up as though startled. I purse my lips into a thin seam, wondering whether it better suits my purposes now to cold-shoulder him, or to act as though it's all forgotten. But in the space of a breath, he's made my decision for me, seating himself next to me and stretching long legs next to mine, our thighs almost touching.

“Look, Milla—
talk to me
.
That's
what I was trying to say. Not that you're weak. Just that I can't read you...I can't help you.”

“Who says it's your
job
to?” It comes out with a little more venom and defensiveness than I intended, and his eyes widen. Strangely, the aggression seems to comfort him. Okay, then—he wants to see me wounded.

“That's not the first time you've needled me. Do I
know
you, Milla?”

Shit
. “No, not as such—”

“But I'm well known in the area. You don't have to know me to
know me
.” He sighs, a little wearily. “So what is it, then? You know someone who knows me? You know someone who works for me?”

It's painful having such a
direct
reminder how invisible people like me are to people like him. “
I
work for you. Or, used to, all things considered.”

He stiffens, and actually has the decency to look contrite. “Yeah—a lot of people do. I don't get to know many of them. I'm sorry I didn't recognize you. What do you do?”

I shake my head. “It doesn't matter, now.”

“Sure it does—”

I shake my head, again. “None of it fucking matters here.” Let him have something he can fix, while I ready my next attack.

“Okay, then. Have it your way.” He strokes my hair, and it would almost be possessive, if anyone else was paying us enough attention to see it. It's not the first time his fingers have massaged my scalp, though it might be the first time he'll
remember
. “I can't help but think there's a pattern to this, and I just can't see it. You're not the only one who just... doesn't want to think of things continuing without them. Better to not talk about what was, at all.”

I bite my lip, hating the need to play this charade, instead of holing up with a cup of hot chocolate and watching him fret on camera. The way his blue-gray eyes darken, turn stormy... up close it's entirely too similar to the way he looks when he comes. I don't need to remember
that
. I've done some heart-wrenching things to get us all here, and I don't need the reminder that I may have to
again
, to keep them from suspecting me.

“The world's so different here...” He seems to be trying to get me started, as though talking will lance the poison of the other night. “You can go through life without ever seeing a person die, out there, and in here,
you're stepping on his body
to buy another few minutes that it's not
yours
.
”

I want to smile at the venom in his voice. Strangely, that seems to have been the part of Alex's death that stuck with him the most. Not the flames glowing through the floor, the cherry-red iron grates under their feet smoking, the smell of charred flesh thickening. Only Allen and Denise stepping on his body to give themselves a few more minutes of safety on the ground, barely a minute after Alex's death.

It's a good thing that Allen and Denise are wrapped up divvying up their own portions of water and sandwiches. If they heard that, it would surely be reopening the wound. For a moment in the thick of it, it had looked like he might lash out at them, instead of helping them to safety. His muscles were corded with fury, and the next time he looked at me, his jaw was still tight and his eyes clouded. I don't know what to make of the fact that his expression made my blood pound harder, and heat spark between my legs. But the others saw his unhappiness, too, and it's definitely eroded some of their willingness to trust him.

Maybe I'll use that. I've been sticking to Calder more closely than the others, because he's the greatest threat. He's the most resourceful, the strongest, and he's shown himself to be
much
more keen to face down his fear, if it means getting to the bottom of it. But the decision to concentrate on him, it's definitely meant that I have less time, attention, and privacy for watching the others. And a few words leaked, at the right time...

I store the idea in my head for future use. Sometime when Calder's
not
dissecting me with his eyes, wanting to find the broken parts so he can fix them.

Calder's palm lingers against my head, and it occurs to me that he expected more of a reaction at that, at him invoking the memory of the other night. The seconds've stretched on without me responding. I drop my head back against the wall, flattening his fingers until he withdraws his hand. “Yeah. I know. I mean... it was so smoky up there, I could hardly see—” That's a bit of a lie. There wasn't too much actual smoke until Alex's flesh started burning. Just clear smoke that made me choke.

He drops his hand over mine, covering my fingers with his, and weaving them together. It's plainly meant to be comforting, and I shut my eyes to avoid having to react to it. The more he touches me, the more it perplexes me.
No one's
handled me that gently. It's not animalistic passion, or adolescent infatuation. And it's not the emotionless hugs you share at a funeral, trying not to touch each other too much lest the taint of death smear off on your pretty clothes. It's not even the feral need to dominate and connect that he let loose with, when I started singling him out.

Too late, I realize the opening I've given him.

“What
did
you see?” He flashes a sad smile my way. “You should've left when you could.”

I wrinkle my face, just at the memory of the smell. It was thoroughly unpleasant, true, but I could inhale everything it represents all day. Well, until I died of lack of oxygen, anyways.

“It doesn't—”

“Mil, hon, you don't see something like that and emerge unscathed. You really haven't reacted—for a while I thought you were in shock, but I keep waiting for things to have set in. It's been a while—”