Red. (Den of Mercenaries #1)(4)

“Bleed for what you believe in,” he said in a low voice. “By the end of your time with me, you’ll die for it as well.”

Panting, Niklaus watched as Jetmir took his leave, along with a few others, but three remained.

The one that had taken Sarah.

The one he had fought with.

And the blond.

It was him, Niklaus knew, that he needed to remain wary of. Because it was to him that Jetmir had given a meaningful look before he disappeared out of the room.

Jetmir hadn’t been gone more than a couple of minutes before Niklaus was cut free and dragged from the chair before his wrists were rebound, and this time, he was hung from a hook in the ceiling.

Sarah was whimpering softly, but as his gaze was to the cold, damp wall in front of him, he could only hear what was happening around him. There was the rattle of the cart, the flicker of a flame igniting, and the men speaking in their native tongue behind him. That only made it worse, having to hear everything, but seeing nothing.

Someone walked behind him, hesitated a second, then Niklaus flinched away from the cold blade that was slipped beneath his shirt, cutting through the material with ease, the sides draping open though the shirt remained in place because of the knives in his chest. He tried to breathe through his panic, wishing once again that he knew something, anything that could get him and Sarah out of this place.

But the men at his back were eager to get started, drawing the blade across his skin in a painful line. Niklaus hissed, but didn’t cry out…not yet.

Blond hair snared his attention as the one that moved like a ghost leaned against the wall so that he had a clear view of his face. He was the one holding the knife that was now dripping with Niklaus’ blood.

“Tell them what they want to know,” he ordered quietly, like his words were only meant for him to hear.

Tell them? As though he had no part in this?

Niklaus looked from him, to the wall, and back again as he tried to think of an answer, one that was the correct one to a question he didn’t know.

It dawned on him that Jetmir hadn’t given him any information to actually provide an answer for. He was beginning to believe that this was not about answers at all.

That thought made his heart hammer harder, but his lack of an answer made the blond move out of sight again.

Not even seconds later, the sharp sting of his parting flesh had Niklaus trying to get free, and as the blond dug in deeper this time, he finally cried out.

“Do you have an answer?” the blond asked, this time loud enough for them all to hear.

His breaths ragged, Niklaus whispered a plea he knew would fall on deaf ears, his own just barely picking up the sound of Sarah’s distress.

But that was nothing compared to the noise he made as the blond rhythmically, and quite patiently, took his knife to Niklaus’ back and began to really work.



* * *



“Leave him be, Valon.”

Valon…Niklaus repeated that name over and over to himself as awareness crept back in. Now, finally, he had a name to put with the blond.

Valon fell into his line of vision, blocking out some of the sunlight streaming in through the windows on either sides of the room.

He didn’t dare try to move, hours of agony had taught him very quickly that any tiny alteration in the way he hung caused the shredded muscle along his back to flare to life once more.

Still as vacant and unfeeling as before, Valon said, “Tell them what they want to know.”

He had been steadily working his way across Niklaus’ back, starting at the tops of his shoulders, carving long, fluid lines down to the small of his back. Unlike his counterpart—who seemed to enjoy Niklaus’ pain a little too much—Valon rarely made any noise at all, and didn’t give any indication as to whether or not this thrilled him.

Had he been in this place so long that he had begun to hope that it was Valon torturing him as opposed to the other? Was he choosing between two levels of pain?

Time passed in waves. He could no longer tell what day it was, or how long he had suffered under the onslaught of torture, but through it all, Niklaus was thankful that all their attention seemed to be focused solely on him. Sarah mostly had to watch him suffer, it was far better than her being hung alongside him.

“Still don’t want to talk?” Valon’s associate called out. “Then we’ll try something new.”

New?

What more could they do to him that hadn’t already been done? But even as his mind ran wild with possibilities—even as he fought the darkness that threatened to pull him under—he heard it.

Sarah’s whimper.

Fighting to keep his eyes open, to stay conscious, Niklaus shook his head, weakly, trying to force his head around. “Don’t…don’t touch her.”

But his words were as weak as his body.

He tried to stay conscious.

He needed to, for her sake.

But even as he heard the sound of ripping fabric…the sound of Sarah screaming behind her gag…he was sucked right back under.



* * *



At some point, Niklaus had been moved, transferred from the hook back to his chair. It felt like he had lost another day, drifting in and out of consciousness. His stomach ached with hunger, his mouth terribly dry, but those baser needs were the last things on his mind as the agony of his wounds kept his full attention—he had grown to ignore the knives still imbedded in his flesh.