Page 103 of All The Pretty Little Lies

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 coldmetal 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 voicetrembling. "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.

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