Page 86 of Beneath the Surface

Brad straightened, his eyes narrowing. “You swear? The way you swore loyalty to a monster? You’ll excuse me if I don’t take your word for it.”

Courtney suddenly dropped to her knees, tears streaming down her face. “Please,” she begged, her voice desperate. “You don’t understand. I’ll do anything. Be anything you want. Just don’t send me to jail. Be my Dominants. I’ll obey. I’ll be perfect for you. Please.”

Larson’s laugh was sharp and humorless. “You think this is a game? We’re not interested in your submission, sweetheart.”

Brad stepped back, his expression cold. “You’re going to jail. And if you’re lucky, you’ll live long enough to realize just how badly you’ve screwed up.”

He opened the door, gesturing for the waiting officers. “Take her. Book her. And don’t let her out of your sight.”

Courtney sobbed as the officers hauled her away, but Brad didn’t look back. He turned to Larson, his jaw tight. “We’ve got a lead.”

Larson sighed. “We run every gray Toyota Corolla in South Dakota.”

The room wasa hollow shell of despair, cold and damp with an oppressive silence broken only by the distant sound of dripping water. The stone walls seemed to breathe malice, their chill creeping relentlessly into the marrow of her bones—a constant, inescapable reminder of entrapment. The air reeked of mildew and stale sweat, mingling with the faint metallic tang of blood.

Isobel lay crumpled on the floor, her body contorted in an agonized sprawl. Her wrists were bound to a rusted pipe in the corner, the restraints digging so deeply into her flesh that the raw, bloody wounds there were crusted with grime. The torn skin pulsed with every slight movement, a symphony of pain that refused to let her forget the reality of her situation. The pipe groaned faintly under the strain when she shifted, a mockery of her futile attempts to free herself.

Her body was a battlefield of bruises and lacerations, a macabre map of Hale’s relentless torment. Purple and green blotches marred her arms, ribs, and thighs, each one a testament to the force of his blows. The deep imprint of a boot heel discolored her abdomen, the pain radiating outward with every shallow breath. Fresh scratches crisscrossed her upper arms andshoulders, where his nails had raked her skin in one of his violent outbursts, his sick satisfaction palpable.

Her lips were cracked and bleeding, the metallic taste of her own blood a constant presence on her parched tongue. One eye was swollen nearly shut, the surrounding skin puffed and darkened from the backhand that sent her reeling into the wall hours ago—or was it days? Time was meaningless here, swallowed by the black void of the room.

The relentless chill of the stone floor seeped through her tattered clothes, leaving her trembling uncontrollably. She wasn’t sure whether it was the cold or the sheer exhaustion that caused her body to quake, but her muscles twitched and spasmed, refusing to offer her even a moment of reprieve. Her teeth chattered faintly, the sound barely audible over the pounding in her ears.

Hale’s voice echoed in her mind, sharp and cutting, as if it still lingered in the air.“You’re stronger than I expected,”he’d sneered after yet another strike failed to elicit the screams he so clearly desired.“But everyone breaks. You’ll beg me before this is over.”

His methods were calculated, cruel in their precision. He alternated between overwhelming violence and insidious mind games, ensuring she could never anticipate what would come next. He used her moments of silence and defiance as fuel. He’d tried electric shocks, his hands striking harder, his taunts growing darker. When her body slumped in sheer exhaustion, he knelt close, his breath hot and rancid against her ear as he whispered promises of worse to come.

The pipe creaked again as she tried to adjust, the metal biting deeper into her wrists. Her stomach clenched, not just from the lingering pain of his kicks but from the fear that gripped her every time he left the room—because she knew he would always return. And when he did, the torment would begin anew.

She had no idea how long she had been here. Time had dissolved into a blur of pain, hunger, and fear.

Hale stood over her, his shadow looming large in the dim light. His face, once familiar, now twisted into something monstrous. His eyes glinted with a sick satisfaction as he watched her struggle to keep her head up.

"Still holding on, are we?" His voice was smooth, a taunting lull that sent shivers down her spine. He crouched down beside her, grabbing her chin with bruising force and turning her face to meet his gaze. "You are stubborn, Isobel. I’ll give you that."

Isobel’s lips were cracked and dry, her throat raw. She could barely summon the strength to respond, but her eyes, filled with defiance, told him everything he needed to know. He hadn’t broken her. Not yet.

Hale sneered and released her, her head hitting the floor. He stood up and paced the room like a predator circling its prey. “You think someone’s coming for you? Your precious Brad?” He laughed, a sharp, cruel sound. “He’s not going to save you. He’s as weak as the rest of them.”

At the mention of Brad’s name, something flickered inside Isobel, a tiny ember of hope she clung to in the darkness. Brad wouldn’t stop. She knew that. She wasn’t going to die here. Not like this.

Hale’s laughter faded as he grew bored with her silence. He turned back to her, his expression darkening. “But if you’re not going to talk, maybe I should make this more interesting.”

He pulled out a small knife, the blade glinting in the low light. Isobel’s heart raced, her mind screaming at her to fight, but her body was too weak. She could barely move. He knelt beside her again, dragging the blade slowly down her arm, not deep enough to do real damage, but enough to leave a thin trail of blood.

“You see, Isobel,” Hale whispered, his voice deadly quiet, “I can keep this up for as long as I want. You? You don’t have that luxury.”

Isobel winced at the sting of the blade but didn’t cry out. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, she closed her eyes and thought of Brad. She thought of escape, of freedom, of survival.

Thirty-Three

The war room buzzed with relentless energy, maps and laptops crowding the table as Brad reentered, carrying the laptop he’d found on the floor of Tristan’s office. The screen had lit up as he picked it up, revealing a faint glow of familiarity. His heart clenched when Sophie’s sharp intake of breath drew his attention.

“That’s Izzy’s laptop,” Sophie said.

Brad’s stomach twisted. “I found it on the ground in Tristan’s office,” he explained. “What was she doing with it?”

Sophie bit her lip, her gaze darting to the screen. “She asked to use the office after you dropped her off,” she said. “She was nervous—kept saying she was going to help you. She was on the phone at one point, then Molly went into labor.”

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