All The Pretty Little Lies (Second Sons Duet #1)

36. Alex

ALEX

I watch as Zaire and Oscar carry Natasha down the narrow stairs, her limp body swaying between them like a rag doll. The familiar musty scent of the basement hits me as we descend, mingling with the metallic tang of fear that seems to emanate from our unconscious guest.

My playroom, as the guys jokingly call it, awaits us at the bottom. The fluorescent lights flicker to life, casting an eerie glow across the plastic sheets hanging from the ceiling. They rustle softly as we move past, the sound oddly reminiscent of whispered secrets.

The room is a masterpiece of efficiency and horror. Stainless steel gleams from every surface, cold and unforgiving. The drains in the floor, strategically placed, promise to wash away any evidence of the night's activities. I've always appreciated their silent efficiency.

In the center of it all stands the pièce de résistance, a mortuary table. Its surface polished to a mirror shine, an altar to my craft, ready to receive its latest offering. Zaire and Oscar hoist Natasha onto it, her red hair spilling over the edge like molten lava.

"She's heavier than she looks," Zaire grunts, rolling his shoulders. The movement makes the tattoos on his arms seem to writhe in the harsh light. His eyes meet mine, a mix of anticipation and something darker swirling in their depths.

Oscar, ever the pragmatist, is already adjusting the plastic sheeting, sliding the hooks along their tracks with practiced ease. "You want full coverage tonight, Alex?" he asks, his voice low and controlled. Unlike his twin, Oscar's unmarked skin seems to absorb the light, making him look like a shadow given form.

I nod, my fingers trailing along the edge of the table. The cold metal grounds me, focuses my thoughts. "Yes," I reply, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears. "We don't know how messy this is going to get."

As Oscar finishes arranging the plastic and Zaire checks Natasha's restraints, I feel a familiar thrill run through me. This is my domain, my stage. And tonight, I have quite the performance ahead of us.

“Start playlist,” I call out to the virtual assistant I have programmed for my playground. The haunting melody of "Just Pretend" by Bad Omens fills the space, providing a shield against the demons that haunt my thoughts during such tasks.

I stride towards the surgical table, my footsteps echoing in the cavernous room with the music. The array of instruments laid out before me glint under the harsh fluorescent lights, each one a promise of pain and revelation. Scalpels of various sizes, their edges wickedly sharp, rest beside delicate scissors designed for precise cuts. Tweezers of different lengths and grips are neatly arranged, ready to pluck and probe.

My eyes linger on the rib extractors, their cruel curves a testament to the depths of human ingenuity when it comes to inflicting suffering. Each tool has its purpose, its moment in the dance I'm about to choreograph. But not yet. Not quite yet.

Instead, my hand reaches for a syringe, its glass barrel filled with a clear liquid that seems to pulse with potential energy. Adrenaline. The key to unlocking our guest's consciousness and ushering her into our world of pain.

As I lift the syringe, I hear two sets of footsteps coming down the stairs. The footsteps grow louder, and I turn to see Talon descending the stairs, Vesper in tow. She's still wearing that slip of a black dress from the restaurant, the fabric clinging to her curves like a second skin. The sight of her makes my breath catch, a mixture of desire and something darker stirring in my chest. An odd feeling considering my longest relationship with either sex didn’t last more than satisfying my itch. But, with Vesper, there’s something different. Something that I can’t explain with pain or computer code.

As they reach the bottom, the harsh fluorescent light catches on the diamond circlet collar adorning Vesper's neck. It sparkles, a stark contrast to the clinical sterility of the room. My eyes are drawn to her legs, where the faint shadows of bruises are visible on her knees, a testament to her prolonged kneeling at Talon's side earlier.

Vesper's eyes widen as she takes in the room, her gaze darting from the plastic-draped walls to the gleaming instruments on the tray beside me. I can almost see the realization dawning in those green orbs, the understanding of what this place truly is. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

Zaire and Oscar move toward her, their movements fluid and predatory. They flank her, creating a living barrier between Vesper and Natasha. I watch as they lean in, their lips barely moving as they engage in a hushed conversation. Vesper's eyes flick between them, her expression a mix of fear and is that intrigue?

Oscar's hand comes to rest on the small of Vesper's back, his touch light but possessive. Zaire, ever the more aggressive of the two, reaches up to trace the line of her collar with a tattooed finger. I can see the shiver that runs through Vesper at his touch, her pupils dilating slightly. Oscar's eyes meet mine over Vesper's shoulder, a silent question in their depths. I nod almost imperceptibly, granting permission for whatever they have planned.

I hear the snippets of the conversation. “Let her stay,” I order. If anyone in this room deserves to see this, she has the most right to witness this.

I turn back to Natasha's prone form on the table, the syringe still in my hand. “Let’s wake her up.”

I position the needle over Natasha's heart, feeling the weight of everyone's eyes on me. With practiced precision, I plunge the syringe into her chest, the needle sliding through flesh and muscle until it finds its mark. I depress the plunger, watching as the clear liquid disappears into her body.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then, like a bolt of lightning animating a corpse, Natasha's body jerks violently. Her eyes fly open, wide and unfocused, as she gasps for air. Her chest heaves against the restraints, her back arching off the cold metal table. The sound that escapes her throat is primal, caught somewhere between a scream and a sob.

I step back, allowing Talon to move forward. His presence fills the room, commanding and intimidating. Natasha's wild eyes lock onto him, and I see a flash of recognition followed quickly by confusion.

"Charles?" she croaks, her voice raw and disbelieving. "Charles, what's happening? Where am I?"

Talon doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he circles the table slowly, like a predator stalking its prey. His golden-brown eyes never leave Natasha's face, drinking in her fear and disorientation.

"Now, now, Natasha," he finally says, his voice smooth as silk but edged with steel. "Let's not play games. You know very well who I am and why you're here."

Natasha struggles against her bonds, the metal cuffs biting into her wrists and ankles. "I don't understand. Charles, please, what's going on?"

I move to the tray of instruments, selecting a scalpel. The weight of it in my hand is comforting, familiar. I begin to make shallow, precise cuts along Natasha's arms, following the lines of her veins. She whimpers at each touch of the blade, her eyes darting between Talon and me.

I continue my work, the scalpel dancing across Natasha's skin with practiced precision. Each cut is a work of art, shallow enough to avoid major blood loss but deep enough to elicit gasps and whimpers from our guest. She begs me to stop with each pass, but her pleas fall on deaf ears. The room fills with the metallic scent of blood, mingling with the antiseptic smell of the basement.

Talon looms over Natasha, his presence overwhelming in the confined space. "Charles, please," she begs again, her voice trembling. "I don't understand what's happening. Why are you doing this?"

A dark chuckle escapes Talon's lips, the sound sending shivers down my spine. "Oh, Natasha," he says, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Charles Blackwood doesn't exist. He never did.”

I watch as the realization dawns on Natasha's face, her eyes widening in horror. The fear in her expression is intoxicating, and I find myself pausing in my work to savor it.

"The day you sold Vesper to me," Talon continues, his voice hardening, "you started a countdown clock. Did you really think you could traffic the daughter of a crime family and get away with it?"

Natasha's breath comes in short, panicked gasps. "I didn't know. Please, you have to believe me. I was just following orders!"

I can't help but laugh at her pathetic attempt at innocence. "Orders?" I interject, my scalpel hovering over her thigh. "And I suppose those orders included stealing from Vesper's body too, didn't they? Tell me, Natasha, how many times did you harvest from Vesper? How many eggs did you steal from her body while she was drugged and helpless?"

I watch as Natasha's face pales, the last vestiges of her facade crumbling. She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. Like a fish out of water gasping for air. I grip the scalpel tighter, my knuckles whitening around the steel. The anticipation builds within me, a dark tide rising.

"You took from Vesper. Now it's time we take from you."

I make the first deep cut along her abdomen, relishing her scream. The blade parts flesh and fat, revealing the glistening layers beneath. Blood wells up, trickling down her sides in crimson rivulets. I work methodically, opening her up like a grotesque flower blooming in reverse.

But I don't stop. I can't stop. I imagine Natasha's hands on her, violating her, stealing pieces of her very essence. My cuts become deeper, more frenzied.

“How many?" I growl, pressing the scalpel against her quivering flesh. "How many eggs did you take?"

Natasha's eyes are wild with terror. "I...I don't know! Dozens, maybe. I lost count!"

The admission sends a fresh wave of fury through me. I contemplate removing her uterus right here, right now, without anesthesia. Let her feel a fraction of the violation Vesper endured. But no, that level of torture would have to wait. We need her coherent, able to feel every ounce of pain we inflict.

Instead, I reach for a pair of forceps. With practiced precision, I clamp down on a nerve bundle near her hip. Natasha's back arches off the table, a guttural scream tearing from her throat.

"That's for every time you touched her," I snarl, twisting the forceps. "For every egg you stole, for every dream you shattered."

Natasha writhes on the table, her restraints clanking against metal. "Mercy," she gasps between screams. "I didn't have a choice!"

I laugh, the sound hollow and cruel. "There's always a choice, Natasha. You chose wrong."

I continue my work, alternating between shallow cuts and deep, burning pain. Each incision is a question, each twist of the forceps a demand for information.

As I work, I'm acutely aware of Vesper's presence behind me. I wonder what she's thinking, seeing her tormentor laid bare and broken. Is she satisfied? Horrified? I don't dare glance at Vesper. If I did, I know this would all be over in an instant. One look at her face, whether it showed horror, satisfaction, or worse, pity, and I'd lose my nerve. I'd slice Natasha's femoral artery, and we'd have nothing but a bloody mess and no answers.

Instead, I focus on my work, letting the familiar rhythm of cut and question guide me. The scalpel becomes an extension of my hand, dancing across Natasha's flesh and muscle with brutal precision. Each incision is a work of art, a masterpiece painted in shades of crimson and pain.

The room fills with the sounds of Natasha's screams, punctuated by the soft drip of blood hitting plastic. The air grows thick with the metallic scent of iron, mingling with the acrid tang of fear and sweat. It's a heady mixture, one that threatens to overwhelm my senses if I let it.

Leaving her open abdomen behind for now, I move to Natasha's left hand, carefully separating skin from muscle. The delicate bones of her fingers are exposed, gleaming white against the red of her flesh. With surgical precision, I begin to remove her fingernails, one by one. Each extraction elicits a fresh scream, raw and primal.

Talon's voice cuts through the haze of blood and pain, his tone sharp as the scalpel in my hand. "What does Mario Rossi want with Vesper's embryos? What was his part in all of this?"

Natasha's eyes, wild with agony, dart between us. Her lips move, but only a strangled whimper escapes. The pain has pushed her beyond words, beyond coherent thought. I can see the struggle in her face, the desperate attempt to cling to consciousness even as her body begs for the sweet release of oblivion.

I press the scalpel against her cheek, letting the cold steel kiss her tear-stained skin. "Answer him," I growl, my voice low and dangerous.

But it's too late. Natasha's eyes roll back, her body going limp on the table. The constant stream of screams and whimpers cuts off abruptly, leaving the room in an eerie silence broken only by the soft drip of blood onto plastic.

Talon leans in, his golden-brown eyes narrowed. "Is she dead?"

I press my fingers to Natasha's neck, feeling for a pulse. It's there, weak but steady. "Nope, just out cold," I report, a mix of disappointment and anticipation coloring my voice. "The pain overtook her."

Oscar steps forward, frustration etched across his features. "We didn't get anywhere," he spits, running a hand through his dark hair. "All this, and we're no closer to answers."

I turn to him, a slow smile spreading across my face. It's not a kind smile, there's nothing kind about this room or what we're doing. "Don't worry, Oscar. I can keep her alive." I gesture to the array of medical equipment lining the walls. "I'm just getting started."

My eyes roam over Natasha's unconscious form, my mind already racing with possibilities. The human body is a marvel of evolution, capable of enduring far more than most people realize. And I intend to push those limits to their breaking point.

I move to a nearby cabinet, pulling out vials of various drugs. Stimulants to keep her awake, painkillers to take the edge off just enough to keep her coherent, and other, more exotic compounds that blur the line between science and torture.

"We'll let her rest for now," I say, preparing a cocktail of drugs in a syringe. "When she wakes up, we'll be ready. And believe me, she'll talk."

I inject the mixture into Natasha’s flesh, watching as the clear liquid disappears into her veins. It won't wake her yet, but it will ensure she doesn't slip too far away from us.