A Deal With The Devil

Tools of torture

Benoit's POV

“Who are you working for?’' My voice was icy, a winter gale. I pressed an undetectable button, revealing tools of torture. The gleaming instruments caught the light, each one more horrifying than the last.

Lies. They were the termites of empires, gnawing away at their foundations until they crumbled to dust. And I didn’t tolerate them.

She gasped, her eyes fixed on the tools.

“What are those?’' She whispered, her voice quivering as she stepped closer to the tools of torture. She didn’t run, didn’t scream. She was playing dumb. But was she? Confusion seeped into my mind, a rare occurrence, and it angered me. The urge to finish her off was rising, like a beast stirring in its den. But something held me back, some unknown curiosity.

“Come here,’' I commanded, my voice like a whip. I marched her to the electrocution chair, shoving her into it and strapping her in. Her struggles were futile against the restraints, her whimpers falling on deaf ears.

'‘Leave me alone! Stop!’' she cried, her body trembling against the cold metal. Tears streamed down her face, a familiar sight to me. Thieves always cried, always begged for mercy, but it did them no good.

“No, stop, I didn’t do anything!’' Her body convulsed against the restraints, tremors running through her. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her eyes wide and desperate. She tried to wiggle free, but the straps held her fast, like steel talons gripping her flesh.

“If you don’t start talking,’' I said, my voice low and gravelly, "I’m going to make you regret ever setting foot in this building." My shadow loomed over her, an oppressive darkness blotting out the light.

Her eyes darted around the room, searching for some escape, some way out. "Please, I don’t know what you want from me," she whispered, her words choked by fear. I could smell it on her—a heady mix of sweat and adrenaline.

“‘Why won’t you talk?’ I growled, with frustration mounting in my chest. "What do you know?" Her silence was infuriating, like a riddle I couldn’t solve. I leaned closer, my hot breath ghosting over her face. Her scent was intoxicating, a heady mix of fear and musk. Why couldn’t she just tell me what I wanted to know?

“Please, I don’t know what you want from me,’' she whimpered, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. Her hair, once golden and lustrous, was now plastered to her face with sweat. I wanted to yank it, to hurt her, to force her to talk. But something stopped me. I could break her, I knew that. But I wanted to bend her first.

“My name’s Astra Ria Montero," she said, her voice trembling as she struggled to get the words out. "I was coming home from work when I saw a cat in a box. I helped it, fed it." The story poured out of her like a river, desperate and pleading. Her head hung low, her body still shaking with fear.

I said nothing, just flipped the switch.

Her body jolted, her spine arching in agony. Her screams were deafening, the smell of burnt hair and ozone filling my nostrils.

"Who sent you?" I demanded, my voice like a hammer blow. She was lying, I could see it in her eyes. Or was I being paranoid? It wouldn’t be the first time. But I couldn’t afford to make the same mistake I did with Clarissa.

Astra sat on the chair unresponsive, her eyes hollow, her skin white as chalk. She was a broken doll, lifeless and unresponsive.

I pressed the button. Her body jerked like a puppet on strings, the electricity coursing through her veins. But she remained silent, tears slipping from her eyes like blood from a wound. We played this game of cat and mouse, shock after shock, until I’d had enough.

I stormed back to the counter, snatching up a blunt knife.

With a snarl, I stalked back to the counter, slamming my fist against a hidden button. The walls turned, revealing a chilling display of torture devices—pincers, knives, pliers. She didn’t so much as flinch, her body frozen, her eyes deadened.

"I helped a cat," she whispered, her voice quaking. "And now I’m here." Her fingers twitched, her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.

I stabbed the phone’s screen, calling up my right-hand man Eric. "Astra Ria Montero. Five minutes." The words dripped from my mouth like poison. I didn’t bother to hear Eric’s reply. I hung up, slamming the phone against the countertop.

I leaned on the counter, my chiseled chest heaving with exertion. A sheen of sweat glistened on my brow, my heart pounding with fury… and a sense of uncertainty.

Ria’s hair veiled her face, but the anguish and pain was written all over her body—her trembling fingers, her whimpers, her tensed muscles. She was still breathing, still conscious, but the possibility that I’d hurt an innocent woman tore through me like a bullet.

My legs, seemingly with a mind of their own, carried me to her. She cowered, flinching away from me, her shoulders hunched, trying to make herself small.

I furrowed my brows, a heavy lump forming in my throat, constricting my breath, my heart hammering with doubt. What had I done? Had I made a mistake?

I went to my knees, my fingers unsteady as I unbuckled the straps.

“Come here,’'I whispered, my voice cracking, barely audible through the lump in my throat. Like a marionette with its strings cut, she collapsed onto me, her dress shirt damp and transparent, revealing her bra underneath. Shudders wracked her body, silent sobs escaping her lips.

What had I become? My head throbbed with guilt, my heart ached with regret. I had hurt an innocent person.

"Boss," Eric’s voice cut through the silence. I turned, still cradling Ria, and saw two of my men carry the lifeless body of another into the room. Bite marks covered his neck. My blood ran cold.

"Who did this?" I snarled, my voice like ice.”