2. Hellena

2

HELLENA

P ain.

Relief.

The only two sides of my life for the past few weeks. Everything else is extra.

The days blur together, dark and light irrelevant in my windowless rooms, three small cells in the basement of a place I don't remember arriving at that night. I was a mess.

I was falling apart.

Now…

The most prevalent sensation is that of disconnection. Like this is happening to someone else.

Nothing feels real. Even when they rough me up, when I sleep, when they clean me up after the rounds of mild torture.

It's never permanent damage.

Only enough to keep me from sleeping for hours on end, never enough to push me into the sweet relief of unconsciousness from the pain.

Just enough to wear me down until I'm sobbing, curled in a ball. Then they give me good food, a comfortable bed. A hot shower. Well, comfortable and hot are relative.

Less cold water. And anything is more comfortable than the stone floor.

All to start over again as soon as I'm healed.

I know what it's for. Marco's plan to make me talk.

It's to condition me, train me, tear down my defenses and my sense of self, and replace them with Marco's will, allowed by his grace, instilling obedience. Showing me that he owns me, teaching me how he wants his pet to behave.

Not that they really needed to do any of this.

After they beat Tell to within an inch of his life, told me that Evan and Gavin were likely dead due to the catastrophic damage from the dam breaking…

I just shut down.

I had to.

I barely remember the hours in the car on our way to wherever it is Marco took me, likely his new base of operations. I'm fairly certain it's south of the city, a good layover between LA and Sanctum.

The first few days, I fought back, just out of anger, some of it out of natural instinct. Or maybe it was pride.

I soon learned that Marco's rules for how much his men could harm me only extended so far. And that there are so many other ways to do so without causing wounds to my body.

Mostly, it's those psychological games that keep me stressed, guessing.

When will I get food next?

When will I get led into a false sense of security again?

When will Grico backhand me across the face, completely unexpectedly? Always without a reason. The man is a buffoon and a bully. An ape in a suit would have more discernment and common sense.

Probably more respect, too.

The second week got even worse. They let me out of the basement.

Showed me the estate, the mansion. Waltzed me around through the halls.

Showing off.

Taunting me with comforts.

Gave me a taste of sunlight.

I was made up, dressed and cleaned. Forced to sit through a fancy dinner across the table from Marco. And told not to make a sound. Not to look him in the eye. Or his guest.

Of course, I couldn't keep my damned mouth shut.

"Mr. Vice, this veal is exquisite." The assistant governor hums with delight, clearly trying to ingratiate himself to my captor. "And the company is positively stunning."

"Company, captive audience. Prisoner. Tomato, to-mah-to," I sniff, sipping the ridiculously expensive wine. My tongue barely even tastes it. "Are you here by choice, vice-governor?"

The politician from California chuckles awkwardly, shrugging the comment off as a bad joke.

"I apologize for my stepdaughter, Dale. She has an unusual sense of humor. Self-deprecating, self-sabotaging, even. It's a trait she inherited from her mother . And it's a wonder she ever survived grade school with that mouth."

Marco smiles menacingly at me. It's subtle.

But I know it promises a freezing cold night in the ice baths downstairs.

Or another night in total darkness.

Bring it on, fuck face.

"He's right. I can't help myself. You see, being his stepdaughter and his future wife… I just get so excited that I can't control what comes out of my mouth. Or maybe I'm just confused by that disgusting change of roles." Fuck. I'm really in for it now.

When will I learn to shut my fucking mouth…

"Well. That's certainly a shame. But what you can't breed out of them, you can always beat out of them." The wiry man lilts, laughing like it's a light-hearted jest instead of the misogynistic threat it is. "You should be grateful to Mr. Vice."

"God help the woman who lets you breed, sicko," I grumble, glaring at them both. "And I am grateful. That I won't have to see either of you again for a while."

I paste on a wan grin, catching the twitch in Marco's lip.

"Why don't we take a cigar on the patio? I just opened a bottle of Macallan 30. I think you'll find will cleanse your palate after such a distasteful display." Marco raises an eyebrow at me, shaking his head.

"Agreed. Thank you, Marco." The vice-governor snickers, avoiding actually looking at me as he turns his head past where I'm seated.

The two men saunter out, Marco giving me a cold glance over his shoulder before nodding to my guards to take me back downstairs.

Tonight's going to suck.

As hard as I fight, sleep eventually takes me in my cell.

I've only just fallen asleep when the door slams open, I'm grabbed, dragged into another room, and hosed down with freezing water. The bone-chilling battery of water goes on for what feels like an hour until I'm down on my knees, huddled against the wall.

At which point, I'm unceremoniously shoved into the room at the end of the hall.

The one place I truly hate.

It's pitch black.

It's too small.

And even an hour in there is enough to make me panic.

My only saving grace is the fact that I'm so worn out by the time they shut the door, I pass out almost immediately.

Without any bearing on time, I wake to more cold. I can only tell that many hours have passed based on my hunger.

My aching muscles. I must not have moved for a long time.

But at least I'm not shaken up. It's much easier to control my anxiety when I haven't just been waterboarded, or any of the other ways they keep me worked up.

The next two days are pretty tame by comparison.

Someone mentions the date at some point one morning, and I discover it's been two weeks since they took me. And I realize that I have no will to run. No desire to fight back.

When they take me upstairs, it's a lot easier to resist basking in the sunlight pooling in the foyer.

I'm taken upstairs.

Sat down at the kitchen table, across from Marco.

They feed me, and I don't even care that I look bedraggled. That I'm filthy.

Marco ignores me completely, except to glance my way a few times throughout the meal. It's clearly some kind of test.

And I clearly pass.

He leaves after his cup of coffee, mumbling something to one of the maids.

Who takes me by the hand. Leads me up the winding staircase.

To a real bedroom.

A gorgeous, yellow tinted, palatial suite.

The real torture comes in the form of the massive garden tub waiting for me in the bathroom, steaming and filled with incredible smelling soaps and lotions. Part of me that has blocked out any hope for comfort, any desire for it, shudders back to the surface.

Logically, I know it's the lack of any succor or relief that I've undergone for so many days that has me shaking as I find myself undressing, drawn toward the tub. I should refuse this. I should shut myself in the closet in protest.

But as I step one foot into the blessedly hot embrace, a tear slips down my cheek.

I think it's as much out of fear as relief.

Because in this moment, all I can think about is how devastated I'll be, how desperate I'll feel if he takes all of this away again. I can't take it.

Soon, the tears are pouring out of me, the silent sobs racking my aching body, soothed by the heat of the scented bath. Blurring my vision, blending with the steam on my face.

He's won.

Marco has kept me isolated for so long.

So I shut off that part of me for a little while. Just for a bit. And I indulge in the present.

Who's an idiot?

That would be me.

One night.

One night in luxury. One night in that king-sized masterpiece of a bed, draped in soft cotton, comforters, pillows. Pure. Heaven.

So it's so much worse when they come in, early in the morning, tearing back the covers, yanking me out of bed by one leg, dropping me to the floor.

The fall scares me more than it hurts, but I'm crying before Grico jerks me to my feet with one terrifyingly strong hand under my armpit.

"Move."

"W–why? I've been good, I've followed every?—"

He only raises his hand this time. Doesn't strike.

And I fucking cower .

I nearly drop to the floor quivering, my eyes clamped shut. Like a whimpering, disgusting whelp.

After a few seconds, I open my eyes, venturing a glance.

The sneer on his face, on the other two guards' faces…The disgust and satisfaction.

I just snap.

My fingernails find his skin before he can react, clawing down his face, his neck, screaming, roaring against this injustice.

"FUCK YOU! You cowards!" I belt at the top of my lungs, the words shredding my throat.

Grico shouts, stumbling back against my assault. Vance and Lonnie just stand there, eyes wide.

Until they realize they should probably help.

One grabs my waist, the other my hands, but I never stop fighting. The entire way back to my dungeon, to my hell, I rail against them, losing control completely.

I'm hysterical.

I'm fucking frantic. I can't go back down there. I can't hang on anymore.

Without a single bit of news from my friends, my home. Knowing it's only a matter of time before Marco goes back and wipes them off the map.

Slinging me away from him, Lonnie tries to dodge my barrage of kicks and punches, lunging back as I scramble across the cold concrete floor toward them. It doesn't even faze me that any one of them could end me with one punch.

Instead, it's a kick, right to the stomach. As I dash through the doorway, back toward the stairs, he drives his boot into my gut as I dive past them, sending me to the ground in a gasping heap.

Air eludes me for what feels like minutes, agonizing, raging.

This is it.

The end of hope.

Lonnie doesn't bother taking it easy on me as he snags my hair, dragging me up, hooking my arms behind my back and zip-tying my hands.

As breath makes its way back into my lungs, deep, primal terror takes hold. They're going to really let me have it…

They're going to do what I've tried not to think about since being brought here.

But all the fight in my body is fading, my energy fleeting.

Sagging in Lonnie's grip, I try to pull away. To show defiance.

"Enough." Marco's voice echoes in the hallway, as cold as the bare walls of the room behind me.

"She went fucking nuts, Boss," Grico explains, dabbing and wincing at the cuts all over his face.

"Of course she did."

Marco emerges out of the shadows, his shirt unbuttoned, his sleeves cuffed up. He's been drinking. He looks roughed up, like he was fighting.

"You see, there's always a little fight left, always. It's all about patience, Grico. Every person I've ever tortured, when you think you've broken them completely… you must always wait. Because they will hold out that little reserve. It's hope . It's faith ."

Grico nods, but his blank stare hardly registers understanding of what his boss is telling him.

Vance and Lonnie are statues, as always, just waiting for orders.

"The real test is to feed it. That hope. Give them a single moment of reprieve. They'll let their guard down. They'll cry a single tear. Then the dam will break."

The iciest chill snakes down my spine, loosening what little strength I had in my legs holding me up. I sag in Lonnie's arms, a tiny, quavering sigh escaping my lips.

He saw me, was watching me.

Watched me come undone in that tub. Watched me collapse into that bed, surrendering to weakness.

Or he just knew exactly what would happen, what I would do.

Crouching just in front of me, he takes my face in his fingers, squeezing my cheeks and raising me to look at him. I can only stare into those eyes for a split second before sickening dread forces me to look away.

They're vacant. Frozen.

He isn't even disgusted by my tear-, dirt-, and blood-streaked face.

My torn nightgown. My scraped knees and hands.

"Hellena. I'm going to give you a few more nights down here to make peace with your old life. Then you will join me upstairs. Take your place. You can have all of your privileges back, but you will have to keep earning them. Are we clear?"

He just locks those black, emotionless shark's eyes onto my lips, waiting for me to speak.

"F–fuck… y–you," I whimper, but it's hollow. An automatic response. There's no venom behind it. Only despair.

"Hmm. I'd rather not." Marco stands, wiping his hands off and turning to leave.

A sound like screeching metal rises in my ears, tearing through my brain. A scream from deep inside my soul. It's deafening.

Crushing.

It's coming from the looming darkness of the door at the end of the hall when Marco points for them to throw me in. Promising me madness.

I only realize right before we reach the doorway that the sound is matched by my own cries, begging, crying, pleading for them to let me stay in my cell, on my cot.

Just not the dark room.

Not there.

The world slows down as the hands holding me flip me around, untying my wrists. Marco watches from the end of the hall, impassive.

I see Grico turn back to ask a question, pointing to his face, then back at me.

Marco just nods once, shrugging.

Right before Grico's fist connects with my head.

And everything goes blessedly quiet.