Page 104 of All The Pretty Little Lies

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 cutsoff 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.

VESPER

I standat the edge of the plastic curtains, my heart pounding in my chest as I take in the sight before me. The basement's dim lighting casts eerie shadows across Natasha's prone form, strapped to the cold metal table like a sacrifice on an altar. The air is thick with the metallic scent of blood and the sharp sting of antiseptic, a nauseating cocktail that makes my stomach churn.

Hours have passed since we were all down here, since I witnessed the brutal interrogation that left Natasha in this state. The penthouse above is silent now, its occupants likely lost in uneasy dreams or restless contemplation. But sleep eludes me,my mind a tempest of conflicting emotions and half-formed plans.

I take a tentative step forward, the plastic rustling softly around me. Natasha's chest rises and falls in shallow, erratic breaths, the only sign that life still clings to her battered body. Her face, once beautiful and haughty, is now a canvas of bruises and dried blood. I feel a pang of something. Pity? Guilt? Or perhaps a chilling recognition that in this world, in this life, any one of us could end up on this table.

My fingers twitch at my sides, itching to do something, anything. But what? Tend to her wounds? End her suffering? Alert the others? Each option carries its own set of consequences, rippling out into futures I can barely comprehend.

I think of Oscar, his warm embrace still lingering on my skin. What would he say if he knew I was down here? Would he understand this inexplicable pull I feel towards our enemy? Or would his eyes harden with that calculating look I've come to both admire and fear?

A soft moan escapes Natasha's lips, barely audible but enough to make me flinch. Her eyelids flutter, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think she might regain consciousness. But she remains lost in whatever dark realm her mind has retreated to.

I take another step closer, my reflection ghostly in the polished surface of the medical equipment surrounding the table. My hand reaches out, hovering inches from Natasha's battered face. To touch her would be to acknowledge her humanity, to forge a connection I'm not sure I'm prepared for.

“I thought I might find you down here.”

I freeze, my hand still hovering above Natasha's face, as Alex's voice cuts through the silence like a blade. "It's funny, isn't it?" he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. "Howthe people who hurt you the most bring on the heaviest pangs of guilt."

My heart leaps into my throat, adrenaline surging through my veins. I hadn't heard him approach, too lost in my own tumultuous thoughts. The basement suddenly feels smaller, more claustrophobic, with his presence looming behind me.

I turn slowly, my eyes adjusting to the darkness beyond the harsh circle of light surrounding Natasha's makeshift medical bay. Alex stands there, a shadow among shadows, his expression unreadable in the gloom. The faint scent of his cologne, sandalwood and something distinctly masculine, mingles with the antiseptic air.

"I'm not feeling guilty," I lie, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. But even as I say them, I know it's not entirely true. The sight of Natasha, broken and vulnerable, has awakened something in me, a reminder of our shared humanity that I've tried so hard to bury.

Alex takes a step closer, and I resist the urge to back away. His eyes, dark and intense, search my face. "Aren't you?" he challenges softly. "Then why are you down here, Vesper? Why stand vigil over the woman who stole from your body over and over again, and sold you?”

I swallow hard, my mind racing for an answer that won't betray the turmoil inside me. The plastic curtains rustle softly around us, like whispers in the night, and Natasha's labored breathing provides a haunting backdrop to our conversation.

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