Torture (Siren Book 2) Read Free

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—”
    Fine. He wants a breakdown, I can give him a breakdown. “I don't want to think about it, Calder.” A lie. I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. “What do you want me to say? That the smoked meat in the sandwiches makes me wish I could be a goddamn vegetarian now? That I'm afraid to be on the ground? That I don't want to get out of this room just as much as you do, on the off-chance that it's even a foot closer to fresh goddamn air and my own bed, because we might see something like that again ?”
    It's a relief to let out something so honest, even if it's a twisted sort of honesty, with my omissions. My hands tremble from the effort, and it's a battle keeping my voice down. At least the emotion in it is raw, and plainly what he wants to see.
    Calder's fingers tighten in mine, and his other hand guides my head to his shoulder. I know what he expects. Tears well in my eyes, heavy, thick sobs that I can only unleash on command. I haven't cried in years, except when it was needed to prove a point to someone.
    Cradled against his chest, my head tucked against his neck, every last bit of unrest leaks into my sobs. I need to make the outburst convincing, make it count. And so long as he thinks he's 'handling the problem', he stays where I need him. But even more than that, he's warm, and sturdy. Immovable. When I’m enveloped so completely, I might as well be a child, long before I saw what people are capable of.
    The tears are about him, not me. At least, that's what I tell myself as he sketches patterns on my shoulders, and rocks me until the sobs stop. It's soothing, and only draws my mind back to processing everything. It's somehow natural being in his arms, and I have to remind myself that it's only because I've been there before; he may not remember what happened before I captured him, but I do. My body still does, from the subtle electricity in his touch.
    But I can't focus on that. I can't remember his confidence, his willingness to play rough, except as a tool to bring my anger to the surface. My ankles and wrists restrained, his naked body between my thighs, all of that only happened to remind me who I was dealing with. And to give me something else to punish him for. If he ever remembers it, maybe even something to hurt him with.
    It's addicting—the power, the pain, the sheer visceral thrill of experiencing my handiwork being carried out, not just seeing it, but smelling it, tasting it. The draw scares me a little; I never thought myself a monster, just an agent of change where no one else would act. Even lashing out at Calder as though my life depended on it, it wasn't bloodlust, just a desire to interact with a violent world as an equal. But the smell of Alex burning, the desire to step on him, too, press him deeper into the glowing iron to hear him sizzle... If I like it, if I like taking someone's life, not just knowing the world is better off without them... It's not a side of myself I want to face.
    So... what did I honestly think? When I was in that ventilation duct, waiting for them to find their way up to me, what made my blood hum?
    I thought it was karma. That each bit of pain was purging something in them, something that had led them to pursue selfish gain to the harm of others. And in that context, I could glory in the smell of burning flesh, of hot metal. I could revel in their yells, in the changes in intonation and tone as they fought or accepted the likelihood of death. The way Denise's body trembled as she knelt with me, away from the flames, but not the suffocating smoke. The noise when Alex tried to get up after falling on that red-hot grate, and left half-charred flesh seared to the floor, before falling for the last time.
    Calder's lips find my