The Torture Room

Chapter 3

While scrubbing the Wing’s office, Rosie endured unrelenting stares that scraped across her skin like coarse bristles. The intensity of the gaze prickled intermittently, as if static danced over her flesh.

Unconsciously, she shivered.

“Captain, if I’m obstructing your work, shall I return later?” She turned with studied politeness. Westin’s eyes had already lowered to the documents on his desk. The end of his cigar was mangled between his fingers, unlit, though he held a gilded lighter in the other hand—forgotten.

“No, proceed. I fulfill my duties, and you fulfill yours,” he said dispassionately, reciting the response as though reading a line she had rehearsed in her mind.

She found no excuse to leave, so she turned back and resumed mopping. Yet the image of the bitten cigar lingered.

Was he envisioning biting something else? Someone?

A phantom pang flickered at the tip of her chest beneath the thin cotton of her undergarments.

That Royal swine.

Although every part of her longed to flee, she couldn’t. Her mission demanded it. Fortunately, her safety was reassured as the two soldiers stationed at the door remained inert, like statues.

She stepped onto a small chair and began dusting the bookshelf. The moment her calf aligned with Westin’s line of sight, the ghastly tickle returned.

Should I feign distraction by cleaning the stains behind the sofa instead? I'll be out of sight.

As she hesitated, a knock interrupted her thoughts. Lieutenant Caldwell entered and saluted.

“Captain, the convoy en route to Goulburn is expected in two hours.”

Relief bloomed faintly in Rosie’s chest. The detainee had not been abandoned. Her covert responsibility to identify infiltrators remained intact.

“Well… there’s time yet. We wouldn’t want our guest to suffer boredom.”

Sadistic fiend. May you descend to the hell you deserve. Hearing of another forthcoming torture, Rosie’s heart curdled.

“Yes, I’ll make the preparations,” Caldwell confirmed.

As Caldwell exited, she approached the Captain’s desk under the pretense of clearing the ashtray—though the cigar remained unlit. Westin did not lift his head, only his gaze.

Feigning nonchalance, Rosie smiled and retrieved the tray of empty sparkling water bottles. With her arms burdened by tools and a cleaning pail, she made for the door, her heart lancing with unease.

º º º

The screams from beyond the chamber door ceased. Moments later, Theo emerged, face ashen and jaw clenched against nausea. Without a word, he took the prison uniform from Rosie and returned inside.

She discreetly removed the cotton wad from her ear and pocketed it. A letter crinkled softly against the fabric. When the door next opened, Rosie was holding her bucket of supplies. A group of soldiers exited, heads lowered. Among them was an elderly man, gaunt and frail, far worse than he had appeared at lunch. Clad in a prisoner’s uniform, he was dragged forward, shackled and tottering.

Reading the panic in his quivering eyes, Rosie met his gaze with unwavering resolve.

The rescue team will come. They must.

Her eyes briefly flicked to the hem of a gray coat. Emerging from the chamber, Westin carried the aura of a man freshly sated, like one leaving a brothel or cabaret. His face bore a calm, almost euphoric expression.

“Well then, I trust you’ll assist again today,” he said, tapping Rosie’s shoulder lightly before vanishing down the corridor.

Once gone, she immediately resumed cleaning.

Every time a "guest" departed, the mattress had to be replaced—soiled as it always was with bodily fluids. Grunting with effort, she discarded the ruined bedding in the hallway and retrieved a fresh one from storage.

Maintaining the torture chamber was the most reviled task in the household—and the most lucrative. Thus, it had long been the responsibility of Epher, a middle-aged maid whose husband’s gambling debts left her financially shackled.

When Rosie first infiltrated the estate, she had been assigned to Mrs. Westin’s: frivolous shopping, tea socials, and petty gossip—tasks of no strategic merit for her purpose. Eventually, she feigned financial desperation, citing a sick mother. Predictably, the head maid, Mrs. Belgrave, transferred her to the annex—where valuables were scarce and the temptation of a penniless maid less perilous.

She befriended Epher and gradually assumed her duties. But Epher soon grew suspicious of Rosie’s frequent nosing. “If you’re trying to seduce the Captain, stop. Do you know how many girls have been expelled for that?”

Thankfully, Epher remained ignorant of Rosie’s real motive, though the distrust was inconvenient. So, Rosie planted a seed. “My uncle got rich from a gold mine in the New World. He pays for my mother’s hospital bills. He wears nothing but silk and gold these days…” Epher’s eyes lit up at the tale—only slightly exaggerated. Rosie’s aunt had married into mining wealth overseas and often urged her to come live with them. But Rosie refused.

To climb atop others, to accumulate blood-stained wealth, wear fine clothes, and feast in luxury—this was the world of monarchs, of pigs.

It was not the world her deceased parents and reformist comrades had dreamed of. “Utopia must grow from the blood of the revolution,” she recalled chanting since childhood.

As she scrubbed it loose, the paper in her pocket rustled again.

“I want Rosie to be my daughter.” Mrs. Applewood had once confided this, waiting for Rosie the evening of each day. “My own daughter only writes on Easter and Christmas.” Whenever the mail coach arrived, Rosie would hand off a letter, feigning contact with her “mother.” Only the postman, Peter, knew the truth—coded communiqués for the reformist were hidden in fanciful prose.

Today’s message confirmed it: The ammunition is being transferred to Goulburn.

The convoy had already departed. But she couldn’t phone the branch yet; the mansion’s line was likely tapped. Peter would install a secure phone upon returning to town. Goulburn was five hours away—enough time to mobilize a rescue unit. Perhaps the prisoner would be liberated before reaching the city.

After leaving the bleach-scented chamber, Rosie rounded a corner and arrived at the laundry chute. She filled a basket with bloodied garments and began the trek to the main building.

Suddenly—

“Miss Alton.”

The voice dropped over her like a curtain. She dropped the wicker basket.

“… Captain?” she exclaimed in shock.

When had he approached? She hadn’t heard a single footstep.

She looked up as a breath of warmth grazed the nape of her neck. Goosebumps surged across her skin. Westin leaned in closer behind her, his nose grazing beneath her fine hair.

Her knees trembled. Trapped between a cold wall and his body’s oppressive heat, she had nowhere to escape.

“You smell… exquisite,” he murmured. She reeked of blood and antiseptic.

He stepped in closer again. Her heart pounded as it collided with the wall and her back against the firm plane of his chest.

Dangerous… this is dangerous.



Something hard pressed into the small of her back—not a weapon. Heat radiated from the intrusion, even through layers of cloth. Her skin flinched under it, helpless.