Page 126 of Breaking Rosalind
I rock back and forth, needing to loosen something, anything. Sweat breaks out across my skin and soaks into the bandages, and my wound throbs in time with my thrashing heart.
“Don’t strain yourself, pet.” His large hands clamp on my shoulders, holding me still.
The warmth of his hands sears through the bandages, making me scream through my gag. Releasing me, he walks around my chair to look me full in the face.
“How have you been?” he asks, his voice echoing through the chamber.
I glance over his shoulder at the other operatives. Four of them watch with rapt attention. Axel just hangs his head.
Cesare grabs my chin. “Look at me and answer my question.”
“Fuck you,” I yell through the gag. With the ball pressing down on my tongue, the words only sound guttural.
He tilts his head, his eyes glinting with malice. “What’s that, pet? Use your words.”
I didn’t think I could despise anyone more than my stepfather, but Cesare is getting close. He snaps on a pair of gloves, peels back the bandages from my face and inspects my bruises.
“Much better.” He unscrews a jar, releasing the sharp scent of menthol.
I glance down to find it’s some sort of ointment. Even though I know it’s beneficial, I shake my head from side to side, not that Cesare will even give me the choice to refuse treatment.
“None of that,” he says, as though speaking to a rebellious child. “This will help with your bruises. In a few days, no one will ever be able to tell that those men damaged your face.”
That’s the problem. I don’t want to look untouched, because that’s when Cesare will resume the torture. Only this time, it won’t be orgasm denial. He’ll probably remove something vital so I can never escape.
An icy burn spreads across my skin as he applies the ointment. I try to shrink away from his touch, but he holds my face.
“There,” he says, his voice soft and sinister. “That wasn’t so bad?”
He doesn’t wait for my reply. Instead, he screws the jar shut and strides past the wheelchair, into the space between me and the other assassins hung on the X-shaped crosses.
“Welcome to the last weeks or months of your lives,” he says. “You’re here because each of you has been identified as members of the Moirai.”
All of them shake their heads, save for Axel, whose looks like it might roll off his shoulders.
Cesare chuckles. “It’s too late for denials. You all have the same spinning wheel tattoo on your hip. What is it, the wheel of fate?”
Branson’s gaze snaps to me, his eyes shining with accusation. He was one of my colleagues who snickered when I was about to enter Gunther’s office after escaping captivity.
Cesare spins around, his gaze narrowing. “Are you flirting with another of your boyfriends?”
I flinch. Branson? Is he fucking joking? Scowling, I shake my head.
He nods, seeming satisfied.
“Each of you will spend quality time with me, explaining the workings of the Moirai. I want to know the names of your leaders, their locations, and where to find your headquarters. I want the name of the person with the power to cancel contracts. Most importantly, I want the location of your client.”
My breath shallows. We’ve all been taught never to speak out against the firm. Britt once joked that operatives without loved ones they can threaten get chips embedded under their skin or was it minor explosives? It sounded outlandish at the time but now it doesn’t seem so far-fetched.
“Who will volunteer?” Cesare asks.
Everyone holds still. Nobody would dare betray the firm. At least not in front of witnesses.
He turns to me, his gaze sharpening. “How about you, pet?”
Swallowing around my gag, I glance around at the hanging operatives. As much as I want to nod, I also need to think about the future.
Miranda might be safely tucked away in that apartment, but she only has a month’s worth of frozen groceries. If Britt is injured, or didn’t survive, my poor girl could be trapped. That’s why I need to cooperate with the Montesano brothers.