Blood and Vows.

Chapter 26 – The Escape Below

The cellar was damp stone and iron. It reeked of mildew and old blood, a place designed to swallow screams until they faded into the walls. Alex hung from chains bolted high above her head, her bare feet barely brushing the floor. Every breath felt stolen, shallow, edged with fire. They had worked on her for hours. It wasn’t wild brutality; it was methodical, precise. A s***h here to sting nerves. A bucket of cold water to wake her when her head dipped too far. Thin wires run across her arms and tightened until her circulation burned. Every method had purpose, crafted not to kill her but to unmake her piece by piece. Elma had started with the knives. She treated pain as an art—slow cuts traced over ribs, a slice across the thigh where muscles screamed with every attempt to stand straight. She hummed while she worked, as though Alex’s body was nothing more than canvas. Then came the electricity. Wires clipped to skin, a crank that sent jolts through her until her teeth rattled and her vision whitened. Alex bit her tongue hard enough to taste blood, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a scream. When she refused to break, they turned to drowning. A soaked rag shoved over her face, a steady pour of water that tricked her body into believing it was dying. Her chest convulsed, desperate for air, but she fought the panic. She forced herself to remember training: This is control. This is them trying to make you surrender before they’ve won. She refused. Between sessions they left her hanging, her shoulders tearing at their sockets, body trembling in exhaustion. In the silence, her mind filled with ghosts. Jacob’s laugh. Caleb’s steady voice. Emil’s dry humor. She clung to each memory like rope, telling herself she wasn’t fighting for herself anymore—she was fighting so the people she loved wouldn’t believe she had broken. Hours blurred. At some point, she realized Selma had come. The woman’s perfume cut through the cellar stench like poison dressed in flowers. Selma didn’t touch her. She only circled, smiling, asking questions Alex would never answer. About agents. About networks. About betrayals. “Silence,” Selma purred at last, “is the arrogance of the weak. You think withholding makes you strong. But silence will bury you faster than a grave.” Alex held her gaze. Blood ran from a cut at her temple. Her throat worked, dry and raw, but she forced words out anyway. “If I’m weak, why are you so afraid of me?” Selma’s smile never faltered. “Oh, my dear. I’m not afraid. I’m entertained.” Then she left, and the door clanged shut. Alex sagged in her chains, vision swimming. Her body begged for surrender. Her spirit refused. --- She didn’t know how long it was before she heard footsteps again. Heavy, but careful. Not Elma’s sharp heels. Not Selma’s slow prowl. “Alex.” Her heart clenched so violently she almost blacked out. She opened swollen eyes. Emil. He was thinner than she remembered, shadows under his eyes, but alive. His voice was a whisper. “Quiet. I’ve got you.” Her mind screamed hallucination. Pain often conjured phantoms. But then his hand touched her arm—solid, warm, real. A pick glinted in his other hand. The lock gave a reluctant click. Chains loosened. Blood flooded her wrists in white-hot agony. She nearly collapsed, but Emil caught her. “Can you walk?” “I’ll crawl if I have to,” she rasped. A shadow of his old smile flickered. “That’s what I thought.” He freed her ankles. Every step was agony, but standing meant she was alive. Together they slipped into the corridor, stone swallowing their movements. “Where?” she whispered. “Service tunnels,” Emil said. “Selma doesn’t even know half of them exist. If we’re lucky, we’re ghosts before anyone notices.” They moved quickly, every sound magnified. Twice Emil shoved her against the wall as guards passed. Alex held her breath, counting heartbeats, willing herself invisible. The tunnel narrowed. Pipes dripped overhead. The smell of rust clung to their skin. Emil pushed open a rusted door. Beyond lay a crawl of brick and earth, claustrophobic but leading outward. Her body screamed to stop. She pushed forward anyway. At the far end, a shadow waited. For a moment Alex’s stomach dropped—caught. Then the woman tilted her head, lips curling. Leila. Her eyes assessed Alex in a glance, noting the blood, the exhaustion. “Still breathing,” she murmured. “Not bad.” “Nice of you to notice,” Alex rasped. Leila smirked, then jerked her chin toward the stairs. “Move. Cars are waiting.” --- The night air hit like a slap—cold, sharp, alive. It smelled of gasoline and wet leaves, a brutal contrast to the cellar’s rot. Engines idled under the trees. Stevens stood by a jeep, rifle slung. His face was as carved as ever, but his eyes betrayed relief when they landed on Alex. “You took your time,” he muttered at Emil. “She’s alive. That’s what matters,” Emil shot back. They helped Alex into the jeep. Her body folded into the seat, trembling, but her eyes stayed sharp. Leila scanned the darkness. “We don’t have long. They’ll know soon.” Stevens nodded. “Then we go.” The convoy roared to life, gravel spraying as tires bit into the night. Alex twisted once, looking back. The villa loomed against the horizon, windows blazing like accusing eyes. She knew Selma would already feel betrayal in her bones. Elma would sharpen rage like a blade. This was not victory. It was a reprieve. Emil leaned close, voice low. “You’re safe tonight.” Safe. The word tasted hollow. Alex closed her eyes, gripping the seatbelt as if it were rope in a storm. She wasn’t safe. Not yet. But she was free. And that was enough to keep fighting.