Page 52 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
My mind races, constructing a lie that might divert his rage from Stitch to me. “I asked her to create a backdoor. A way to communicate with the quantum systems remotely.”
“Remarkable.” He crouches before me, bringing his face level with mine. His cologne—that same expensive sandalwood—mingles with the metallic scent of Stitch’s blood. “And did you also instruct her to encode it to Guardian HRS frequencies?”
My hesitation costs me. His hand shoots out, gripping my jaw with bruising force, fingers digging into the hinge of my mandible until my vision sparks with pain.
“You protect each other. How touching.” His thumb traces my lower lip, the gesture obscene in its gentleness. “But it’s ultimately futile.”
He releases me with a shove that sends me sprawling onto the hot concrete.
“The third lesson for all of you to learn is that interference will not be tolerated, nor will lies.” His voice carries an almost academic interest. “Any attempt to lie and reduce another’s punishment results in doubled consequences for the intended beneficiary.”
He nods to the guard, who hands him the bullwhip he set aside. Malfor uncoils it, letting the leather drag across concrete.
“You chose the rod to spare her the whip.” He tests the whip with a flick that cracks the air like gunfire. “Now she receives both.”
“No—” The protest dies in my throat as the first lash cuts across Stitch’s back, tearing through her shirt, leaving a crimson line in its wake.
Stitch’s body jerks against the restraints, muscles tensing as she fights to remain silent. The second lash crosses the first,forming an X of blood that soaks through the torn fabric. Her restraint breaks on the third—a guttural sound that doesn’t sound human escaping through clenched teeth.
Jenna lunges forward only to be caught by guards. She’s forced back to her knees. Malfor doesn’t acknowledge the attempt; he is too focused on his demonstration. Three more lashes, each precisely placed to maximize pain without risking unconsciousness.
When he finally stops, Stitch hangs in her restraints, blood streaming down her back, her breathing shallow and ragged.
“The fourth lesson is responsibility.”
Guards haul me upright, dragging me toward the post where Stitch hangs in her restraints. Up close, the damage is worse—blood soaks through her shirt where the metal broke skin, bruises already darkening across visible flesh.
“Look at her.” Malfor stands at my shoulder, voice soft in my ear. “She bleeds because you lied to me.”
He grabs my hand, forcing something into my palm. A cloth. White. Clean.
“She suffers because you resist what’s inevitable.” His fingers close around mine, making me grip the cloth. “Clean it.”
I try to pull away. “No.”
His hand finds my collar, thumb pressing against the control node at its base. Pain sparks behind my eyes, a warning of what’s to come.
“Clean it, or I will continue the demonstration on each of your friends. One by one. Starting with the one with the broken arm.”
My gaze finds Rebel, still on her knees, face gray with agony, arm clutched protectively against her chest. Then Malia, tears streaming silently down her face. Jenna, struggling to stand despite the tremors wracking her body. Mia, blood trickling from her nose where she hit the ground during the shock.
The cloth feels like lead in my hand. Stitch’s eyes meet mine above the restraint around her throat. She blinks once, deliberately.Do what you have to do.
Bile rises in my throat as I step forward, wiping blood from the metal post. The white cloth turns red, stark evidence of my submission. Of my complicity.
“Very good.” Malfor’s approval lands like acid on my skin. “Now you understand.”
He moves back to the center of the courtyard, addressing us again. “The final lesson is that obedience brings rewards. Resistance brings pain. This is the simplest equation. Even brilliant minds like yours should be able to solve it.”
He turns to the guards. “Return them to their cells. Double security on the work details.”
They throw us into our cells with more force than necessary. Stitch, they carry, her body limp between two guards, blood trailing on the concrete floor. They dump her on her bunk, her head lolling at an angle that sends fresh panic through me until I see the slight rise and fall of her chest.
For hours, we maintain silence, too afraid to risk triggering another demonstration by even whispering. The guards patrol more frequently, stopping to peer into each cell, hands resting on their collar remotes in silent warning.
Night falls outside our windowless prison, marked only by the dimming of overhead lights. The guards change shifts, voices murmuring in a language I don’t recognize—not Spanish this time, something harsher, with more consonants.
When their footsteps fade to the far end of the corridor, I crawl to the bars separating my cell from Mia’s.
