The Torture Room

Chapter 2

Footsteps approached, echoing beyond the chamber door—measured, deliberate. Far too soon for the soldiers to have concluded their repast.

Rosie froze, her heart stuttering, and hastened toward the bed. As she yanked the bloodstained duvet free, the heavy iron door creaked open on its hinges.

“…Rosie Alton. What are you doing here?”

The voice was soft as velvet but pierced her spine like a dagger with surgical precision.

Why now? Of all moments… Why did Captain Westin return now?

Clutching the disheveled duvet to her chest, she pivoted slowly. At the threshold stood a young private, stock-still, braced like a sentinel. His expression was unreadable. A tall blonde man swathed in a pallid gray trench coat, carelessly draped over epauletted shoulders. Beneath the coat gleamed a meticulously adorned officer’s uniform—its fabric stiffened by starch, its breast bristling with medals like trophies. Each one added to that uniform made her stomach churn. The emblem of death, of blood—clotted and unrepented.

“Captain,” she greeted, feigning innocence, adopting a tone of innocuous cheer. “I was providing the guest with his luncheon and retrieving the linen.” A veneer of bemusement danced across her features as though she were entirely oblivious to the gravity of the situation.

“You came unaccompanied?” the captain asked impassively.

“Yes. Mrs. Epher resigned last month…”

“Hmmm.” Westin’s lips curved faintly, though the arctic glare in his eyes betrayed no warmth. His gaze stripped the room bare. It took immense restraint for Rosie not to wet her desiccated lips—any sign of nervousness could betray her.

Has he noticed? No, not yet. There’s still time… If he asks what we spoke about, I have explanations—plausible ones.

She tilted her head, blinked slowly, feigning incomprehension with practiced ease.

Westin advanced, placing his body squarely between her and the prisoner. His large, looming stature radiated domination—a monolith in human form.

He surveyed the shackled man, whose trembling hands now betrayed his internal disintegration. Westin’s face softened with mock sympathy. His gloved hand passed delicately through the prisoner’s disheveled graying hair in a parody of tenderness.

“I know what you're doing, Rosie” he said with a lilt that mimicked affection. “But that’s not what I meant.” Then he turned abruptly, the black leather of his riding whip catching the light.

“Caldwell” he called in a voice low and ominous, “summon the guards. Immediately.”

In Rosie’s mind, she heard the crack of that whip, imagined it tearing through her skin. Motionless, duvet in hand, caught like a condemned soul awaiting judgment.

Westin’s gaze meandered about the chamber, feigning unfamiliarity. When he lifted the iron chain near her and nonchalantly held it around her throat, her breath caught.

If only I had brought it with me… but I hadn’t.

“Captain, reporting,” a voice broke in. Relief and dread warred in her chest as the two soldiers returned, their lips glistening with animal fat—interrupted mid-meal. The corporal snapped to attention, though his salute was undermined by an involuntary tremor.

“You summoned us, Captain?”

“I did,” Westin replied languidly. “Can you conjecture as to the reason?” His casual tone deceived no one, the undercurrent of menace was unmistakable.

The corporal scanned the room. The maid. The prisoner. The silence.

She said she'd be in and out... Why is she still here?

Realization dawned grimly. “You instructed us not to permit the maid’s unsupervised entry.”

“Precisely.” Westin’s smirk deepened, but the oppressive atmosphere in the chamber only intensified.

Swish. Swish.

The riding crop hissed through the air, striking his palm rhythmically. The sound resonated like a countdown to violence. Each sound made the soldiers flinch.

“You have the auditory faculties to hear commands,” he said coldly. “What you clearly lack are the cognitive mechanisms to interpret them.”

“No—sir—”

“Shall I elucidate,” Westin started coolly. “Why I instructed you not to let my dear Miss Rosie Alton enter alone.”

Rosie’s gut clenched. That name again. Not the title, nor the familiarity—but the way he spoke it. Mocking and so possessive it made her skin crawl.

Westin turned toward her once more and laid a gloved hand on her shoulder. The contact ignited a frisson of dread that crawled down her spine like ice water. Were she another maid, would she flinch? Bite back? She didn’t. Instead, she lowered her lashes, pressed one chilled hand to her cheek, and mimicked modesty.

Let him think I’m flustered. Let him believe this guise.

She averted her gaze from Theo Smith, whose panic was evident.

“That detainee,” Westin continued with unsettling levity, “might fall prey to lust. He could... violate her.”

What? Him? He could scarcely manipulate a spoon…

And she was hardly the type to incite lust, even in a healthy man. The insinuation was absurd. But if the Captain declared it, it became dogma.

“You heard that, my dear Rosie?”

“… Yes, Captain. I’ll be more vigilant,” she replied, voice meek.

Westin’s hand lifted, cradled her chin and angled her face upward, like a suitor preparing for a kiss.

You are the real danger, Captain. Not him.

Her lips parted slightly, and her tongue darted instinctively across to moisten them, and Westin’s expression shifted—an almost imperceptible twitch of his brow—before he pulled back.

“Did you gentlemen hear that?” he addressed the guards.

“This place is perilous. For vulnerable, delicate Rosie.” He enunciated each word with surgical precision, punctuating his pronouncement with a jab of the riding crop against their midsections. His voice rose, no longer restrained. A lion’s growl.

Sweat beaded on Rosie’s spine. She’d known Theo since he was a child. The thought of him being punished for her subterfuge unsettled her deeply. Tears welled with practiced ease, spilling over her cheeks as she bowed her head and quivered like a rabbit before a predator.

“I—I’m sorry, Captain,” she stammered. It was my fault. Please… inflict the punishment on me instead.” She clutched the hem of his coat, trembling.

“Men capitulate when women weep,” her mother once told her. But deploy the tears too often, and they lose their currency.

Would Westin succumb?

He did.

The whip froze in mid-air. He turned back to face her.

“Rosie, you needn’t ever do this again. Understood?” he gently muttered.

“Sniff… yes.” As she reached to wipe her eyes with her sleeve, he stopped her.

He cupped her chin again, tenderly, and took a handkerchief from his pocket. Methodically, one by one, he dabbed each tear with excruciating gentleness. Around the room, eyes widened in disbelief. Westin—who never reused a handkerchief—folded this one, soaked in the tears of the maid, and slipped it back into his jacket.

“From now on, leave meals outside.”

“Yes, Captain…” She exhaled, just barely letting down her guard.

His hand lingered, then halted mid-air and lifted her left hand to study it closely.

His gaze narrowed.

A shard of eggshell clung beneath her fingernail. His eyes slowly drifted to the neat pile of shells beside the prisoner’s bowl.

Westin’s fingers—clean, manicured—slid beneath her nail. Then twisted. Searing pain lanced through her hand. She made no sound. Her training forbade it.

He flicked the shard away, his voice glacial: “Rosie, your benevolence is becoming... inconvenient.”