The Torture Room

Chapter 4

“Keep walking.” The click of polished boots echoed beyond the corridor’s bend.

Please—come quickly. If only someone would come this way, Westin wouldn’t dare something so vile.

But the footsteps halted just before rounding the corner.

Now what? What excuse could she use to escape? Rosie's mind raced. Her pistol remained concealed beneath her skirt, yet drawing it would nullify over a year of painstaking covert work. Worse, if they merely discovered the weapon at her garter, even the letter she carried, she would be in big trouble.

As she clenched her teeth, Westin’s nose—buried against the nape of her neck—glided upward, grazing her earlobe. His breath, humid and deliberate, trailed over the sensitive skin between her ear and cheek as he murmured:

“Why do you tremble so?”

Is he really asking in ignorance?

He had removed his black leather gloves. His bare fingers wandered up her side, trailing along the seam of her uniform. They reached forward, toying with the buttons stretched over her chest. Though he never touched her directly, the way his fingertips rotated over the buttons mimicked the perverse familiarity of rolling her n*****s.

Degenerate filth.

“… Captain.” Tears brimmed in her eyes as she started over her shoulder.

“Yes?” he whispered again, breath once more curling at her ear. Rosie gave a trembling sniff.

“I need money. My mother’s hospital fees… I’ll do whatever the Captain desires.”

As though struck by icy water, Westin recoiled instantly. He was infamously averse to such acts, particularly regarding purchased intimacy. No one loathed unsolicited s****l advances more. For all his depravity, he found a woman who offered herself distasteful.

Rosie wiped her tears and masked the flicker of triumph beneath her somber expression. Behind her, Westin leaned back against the opposite wall of the narrow corridor, retrieving his wallet. His face bore the faint trace of disillusionment.

“Rosie,” he said, “you’re a good girl. Don’t speak so filthily in front of any men.”

“…you mentioned previously me being good was inconvenient?”

She quickly grabbed the bundle of bills from his hand. His expression flickered—he seemed on the verge of speaking but exhaled instead.

“Thank you, Captain.”

Now. When the predator is disarmed, that’s the moment to flee. But as she bowed politely and turned to leave, he seized her arm.

“Don’t misunderstand—I didn’t mean to frighten you. I like you.”

A confession?

She froze.

“I admire your fearlessness. You never flinch at the sight of blood.” No… his face softened slightly. A rare smile curved his lips. “Any other woman would’ve fainted by now. Even the boys can’t stomach it. You’re more reliable than those nauseating green recruits.”

He clearly meant Theo.

“I wasn’t trying to coerce you today. And don’t trust those rats—they’re deceitful.”

Rosie couldn’t suppress a faint smirk. Royal pigs were blind to the truth behind her smiles.

“I want you to stay, Rosie…” He released her arm, but his knuckles brushed her shoulder, then traced the contour of her cheek. “I hope you’ll remain with the torture chamber.”

Every nerve in her scalp twitched. He meant for her to remain as its maid. That was obvious. Yet coming from a man like Westin, even a seemingly benign request sounded like a sentence—an invitation to become a part in some flesh-consuming monstrosity.

Or… did he mean something else entirely?

Did he mean she belonged in the chamber—chained, mutilated? After all, the chamber without victims was just a room.

But logic prevailed. It was likely just a professional request—though her darker imagination refused to let go.

“If you were ever hurt—if a single drop of blood…” His words trailed off. The hand that had caressed her cheek suddenly froze. His gaze, once clinical, now looked fevered—flushed with something akin to… remorse?

Moments later, his hand resumed its motion. His fingers, warm against the chill of her lips, traced them deliberately. He pressed softly, as though weighing them. His own mouth tightened. He bit his lower lip—hard. She half-expected blood to bloom there.

Cawfield’s vampire.

Panic prickled her spine. That old epithet—Captain Asher Westin, the bloodthirsty fiend who left corpses in his wake like footprints in snow.

Was he imagining biting her? Drinking her? This was dangerous. Fatally dangerous.

She forced a dazzling smile and clasped her hands in a mock-prayer, ensuring the bills were clearly visible.

Look closely, Captain. My blood runs with the same mercenary greed as any common girl’s.

“Thank you, Captain. You’re generous and kind. I would be honored to work under you… for a very long time.”

The instant her words rang out—empty flattery meant to soothe him—his eyes cleared. Cold again. Sharp as honed steel.

Good.

She turned on her heel and walked briskly away. He did not follow. Once she rounded the corner and passed the two guards stationed by the chamber door, she exhaled in relief.

Then she bit her lip.

A putrid world.

It was far too common for a maid to be fondled or used by their employer’s staff. Yet strangely, such rumours had never shadowed the Westin household. Captain Asher Westin was a known sadist, even to the Royal Family who relied on him. But to women, he was reputedly composed, even courteous. He had never brought female prisoners into the torture chamber.

His brother, Jude, was a scholar, not a soldier. Arrogant in the same way, but in a colder, intellectual sense. He was infamous for discarding women who lacked wit and found no pleasure in meaningless flirtation.

So how had she drawn attention?

A spy must never provoke the eye or ear of their mark. Like furniture, she had trained herself to blend in, to vanish. And yet—she had become visible.

Where had she erred?

She didn’t have to wait long to find out.

º º º

Late.

Damn Westin’s lecherous fixation—she had missed the mail wagon.

Rosie burst out the front door, breath tight in her throat. Near the gate, she spotted Peter, the postman, engaged in light conversation with the gatekeeper. At the sight of her, he gave a dry smirk. “You’re late today, Miss Bristol.”

Though his words were amiable, the tension in his expression betrayed impatience. Time was short.

“Yes… The Captain needed me…”

I’m not here for pleasantries, you i***t.

At the mention of “Captain,” Peter’s expression turned rigid. Rosie composed herself and smiled faintly, handing over the envelope. “Please… make sure it gets through today.”

“Rosie.”

She froze.

The purr of a luxury car’s engine growled behind her. She stiffened.

“I’ll be going now,” Peter murmured, snatching the letter and hurrying to the wagon.

Behind her, the crunch of footsteps on the gravel grew louder. She turned with rehearsed ease. “Captain. Heading out? Dinner’s almost ready.”

“I have an engagement.”

Still in uniform. Another private visit? What cruelty awaits now?

“I see. Mrs. Westin will be lonely, I imagine. Then please—”

“No false pleasantries.” He stepped closer again. The distance vanished.

“Rosie. Every time I see you, I want to ask you something.” Westin’s voice was casual, but Rosie’s body tensed.