Page 107 of Devotion

Every muscle seizes at once, locking up. The sensation is unique. Almost like every fiber is cramping so hard it tears. To my perception, it lasts minutes, though only a few seconds pass.

I open my eyes. Drool pools in my lap, my head lolling forward.

“Who is Shakal?”

“A real man.” I spit the strap out. He forces it back in.

Shock. An eternity of hell.

Then cold. My entire body shivers uncontrollably.

He is careful not to keep it on too long, allowing me time to recover somewhat before he continues. Still, I can smell smoke and a faint odor of blistered skin.

“Shakal,” he whispers in my ear. Then hits me again, pressing the prongs to my chest.

The change of position staggers my resolve, shakes my focus.

“Shakal!” I scream it through my gag.

It goes on too long this time. I black out.

Water kisses my lips. Cracked and bleeding, I suck in a sip, swallow.

“His name, dear. Then you can rest.”

“Shakal,” I whisper.

Three more times. Four.

I lose count. But I hold to the image of him, my Shakal. My rock. He is here, somewhere. Or he is out there, coming for me. To murder every single one of these bastards.

Delirium sets in for a time. I dream.

Then I wake. I can’t open my eyes. They just do not want to respond.

“Sh…Shak…” I mutter.

Until I feel a warm hand on mine. Fingers lacing, palm pressed against my palm. He’s here…

“Volchitsa…”

“You know I hate that nickname, Ciro…”

My eyes snap open, my head jerks back.

“NO!” I scream, glaring into the wide black eyes behind the mask. And he just sits there in the chair next to me, his gloveless hand still intertwined with mine.

With a wordless roar, I twist my wrist, locking my fingers. At least one of his dislocates before he can jerk his hand back.

“Shit!” A low, menacing grunt muffles into the mask as he stands, stumbling back a step. With another growling sigh, he popped them back into place, straightening.

“There. You got what you wanted,” I grit out, my lips frothing with rage.

“Yes. I did.” He storms toward the door. Stops. Turns. “Now the Mocro must get what they want. I am sorry. Well, maybe notthatsorry.”

He holds up his hand as he leaves.

Men come in his wake, turning me in my chair. A panel on the wall opens, and my soul leaves my body. In the next room, through a thick, tinted window, Ciro sits strapped to a chair just like mine.

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