Chapter 6: The Interrogation Begins
The basement smelled like something had died down here once and never quite been cleaned up.
Elena dragged Christian through the door by the collar of his shirt, his heels scraping across the concrete, his bound wrists leaving smears of blood on the floor. He was heavier than she remembered—dead weight now, all the fight drained out of him during the drive from the city. She'd kept the gag in the whole way, listening to him retch against the fabric every time she took a corner too fast.
He deserved worse.
She dropped him in the center of the room and stepped back, flexing her fingers. The rope burns on her palms from the hogtie had already started to blister, but she didn't care. Pain was just information. Pain was just another thing to file away and ignore.
The metal chair sat waiting beneath the single bulb, its chains coiled like sleeping snakes. She'd seen this room once before—the night Adrian brought her here, the night she thought she was going to die. Now she was the one holding the knife.
Funny how that worked.
She crouched beside Christian and pulled the hunting knife from her boot. The blade caught the light, throwing a thin white line across his face. He flinched. Good.
"Hold still," she said. "Or I'll cut something you might want to keep."
He went rigid.
She sliced through the zip ties at his ankles first, then his wrists. The plastic split with a satisfying snap, and she watched the circulation return to his hands—the way his fingers curled and uncurled, the way the color came back in angry red patches. He moaned against the gag, something that might have been words, might have been prayer.
She didn't care.
She hauled him up by the back of his shirt and shoved him into the chair. He landed hard, his tailbone cracking against the metal seat, and before he could catch his breath she'd snapped the cuffs around his ankles and wrists. The chains rattled as he tested them, pulling against the bolts.
They didn't give.
"Those are rated for three thousand pounds," she said. "You weigh what, one-eighty? One-ninety? You're not going anywhere."
He stared at her with wide, wet eyes. The blood from his split lip had dried in a dark line down his chin, and his nose was still crooked from where she'd broken it in the SUV. He looked like a stray dog that had been hit by a car and then hit again for good measure.
She reached for the duct tape.
"Elena—" he tried, the word muffled and desperate.
She peeled the tape off slowly. One inch at a time. The adhesive pulled at his skin, his stubble, the raw edges of his mouth. He screamed against the gag—a high, keening sound that echoed off the concrete walls—and she took her time. Savored it. Let him feel every centimeter of pain.
When the tape was gone, she moved to the ball gag.
It was wet with saliva and blood, the leather strap digging into the corners of his mouth. She unbuckled it and let it fall around his neck, the red ball resting against his collarbone like a grotesque pendant.
He spat blood onto the floor.
"Elena," he gasped. "Elena, please. I'm sorry. I didn't have a choice—"
She backhanded him.
The crack of her palm against his cheek was louder than his scream. His head snapped to the side, and when he turned back, his lip was split open again, fresh blood welling up and spilling down his chin.
"You sold me," she said.
Her voice was flat. No anger. No tears. Just fact.
"You beat me. You zip-tied me and dragged me through your boss's house like a dog. You gave me away like a piece of fucking furniture."
He shook his head, blood flying from his chin.
"It wasn't like that. You don't understand—"
"Then explain it to me."
She pulled out her phone.
The screen glowed in the dim light, casting blue shadows across her face. She swiped through the photos—the study, the ledgers, the USB drive plugged into the laptop. The framed skulls on the wall. The bloodstained pages. The spreadsheets with coded names and coded deaths.
"I know everything, Christian."
She held the phone up so he could see.
"Every deal. Every lie. Every woman you fucked behind my back."
His face went pale.
"Every dollar you stole from him. Every bet you lost. Every time you promised me you were working late when you were really on your knees in some hotel room, begging for your life."
She swiped to a photo of Valentina—the woman from the ledgers, the one whose name appeared next to six-figure transactions and dead drops and a coded notation that Elena had spent three hours deciphering.
"Who is she?" Elena asked.
"I don't—"
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not lying. I don't know who that is."
She leaned in close, her lips brushing his ear. She could smell the sweat on him, the fear, the copper tang of blood.
"You're going to tell me everything you know about Valentina," she whispered. "And then you're going to tell me why you thought you could give me away like a piece of meat and live to spend the money."
She pulled back and pressed the flat of the blade against his cheek.
The steel was cold. He flinched, a whimper escaping his throat, and she watched the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.
"But not yet," she said.
She stepped back.
Crossed her arms.
Waited.
The single bulb flickered overhead, throwing jagged shadows across the walls. The chains rattled as Christian shifted in the chair, testing the cuffs again. His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving against the restraints.
"You have thirty seconds," Elena said. "Then I start cutting."
"Wait—wait—"
"Twenty-nine."
"Valentina is—she's his wife. The Alpha King's wife."
Elena's arms tightened across her chest.
"His wife."
"Ex-wife. Maybe. I don't know. She left him years ago. Took half his territory, half his money, half his men. He's been hunting her ever since."
"And what does that have to do with you?"
Christian swallowed hard.
"She found me. Two years ago. Showed up at my apartment with a file—photos, bank records, everything. Said she needed someone on the inside. Someone who could feed her information about his operations."
"And you agreed."
"I didn't have a choice."
"You always have a choice."
She took a step toward him, the knife glinting in her hand.
"You could have said no. You could have told him. You could have done anything except sell me to save your own skin."
"I was scared."
"So was I. But I didn't sell you."
She stopped in front of him, close enough that she could see the sweat beading on his forehead, the way his pupils dilated as he looked at the blade.
"What did Valentina want?" she asked.
"Everything. The ledgers. The codes. The names of his suppliers. She wanted to destroy him."
"And you were going to help her."
"I was going to survive."
Elena laughed. It was a cold, humorless sound that echoed off the walls and made Christian flinch.
"You call this surviving?"
She gestured at the basement, the chains, the blood on his face.
"This is what surviving looks like when you're on your own. This is what happens when you burn every bridge and everyone who ever loved you."
"I never loved you."
The words hung in the air between them.
Elena stared at him.
"You never loved me," she repeated.
"I couldn't. I don't—I don't know how. I tried, but—"
"You tried."
She felt something crack in her chest. Not her heart. Something older. Something she'd built around herself when she was twelve years old and standing over her mother's lover with a bloody knife in her hand.
"You tried," she said again.
She pressed the blade against his cheek, harder this time. Hard enough to dimple the skin, to draw a thin line of blood that welled up and dripped down his jaw.
"You're a coward, Christian. You're a liar and a thief and a coward, and you're not even good at it. You're not good at anything except spending money and fucking women who are too young to know better."
"Elena—"
"Shut up."
She pulled the knife back and slapped him again. The sound was wet this time, the impact leaving a red handprint on his cheek that would bruise purple by morning.
"I'm not going to kill you," she said.
He looked up, eyes wide.
"Not yet. Not here."
She stepped back and tucked the knife into her boot.
"You're going to tell me everything you know about Valentina. Where she is. How to find her. What she wants. And then you're going to tell me about every other person who's ever crossed you, every debt you've ever owed, every enemy you've ever made."
"Why?"
"Because I need to know who's coming for me."
She turned and walked toward the door.
Christian's voice followed her, high and desperate.
"Where are you going?"
"To shower. You stink."
She stopped at the threshold and glanced over her shoulder. He looked small in the chair, smaller than she remembered, all the charm and confidence stripped away. Just a man. Just a coward. Just another body in a basement.
"I'll be back in an hour," she said. "And when I come back, you're going to give me everything."
She stepped through the door and into the hallway.
The Alpha King was waiting.
He leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, his gray eyes gleaming in the dim light. He'd been there the whole time. She'd known it, felt him the way she felt weather, but she hadn't looked. Hadn't acknowledged.
Now she did.
"How long have you been standing there?" she asked.
"Long enough."
"And?"
He pushed off the wall and walked toward her, his steps slow and deliberate.
"You didn't kill him."
"No."
"Why?"
"Because he's more useful alive."
"Useful how?"
She looked up at him, the scarred knuckles, the silver in his hair, the sharp gray eyes that missed nothing.
"He knows about Valentina. He knows how she operates, who she's talked to, what she wants. I can use him to find her."
"And then?"
"Then I'll decide what to do with him."
The Alpha King stopped in front of her. Close enough that she could smell the whiskey on his breath, the gun oil on his hands, the clean scent of soap from his earlier shower.
"You're learning," he said.
"I've always known how to survive."
"No. You've always known how to kill. There's a difference."
He reached out and touched her chin, tilting her face up so she had to meet his eyes.
"Killing is easy. Any idiot with a knife can kill. What you're doing now—keeping him alive, extracting information, using him as a resource—that's strategy. That's patience."
"I learned from the best."
He almost smiled.
"Flattery won't get you anything."
"Good. I wasn't trying."
She stepped around him, heading toward the stairs.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"I told you. Shower."
"I'll come with you."
She stopped.
Turned.
His face was unreadable in the dim light, but his eyes were hungry. Ravenous. The same look he'd given her in the kitchen, when he'd fucked her against the counter and then ordered dinner like nothing had happened.
"Christian is twenty feet away," she said. "Chained to a chair. Bleeding."
"I know."
"He can hear us."
"I know."
She felt something hot and sharp curl in her belly.
"You want him to hear."
"I want him to know."
"Know what?"
The Alpha King walked toward her, his steps slow and deliberate. When he reached her, he didn't touch her. Just stood close. Close enough that she could feel the heat of his body, the weight of his presence, the way he seemed to fill every inch of space around her.
"I want him to know that you're mine now," he said. "Not his. Not anyone else's. Mine."
She should have been angry. Should have told him she belonged to no one, that she wasn't a thing to be owned, that she'd kill anyone who tried to put a collar on her.
But the words died in her throat.
Because she felt it too. The pull. The claim. Something animal and primal that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with power.
"Then make me yours," she said.
His eyes darkened.
He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her up the stairs, past the door, past the hallway, past the bedroom where she'd slept the night before. He didn't stop until they were in his room—the master suite with its dark walls and heavy curtains and the bed that took up half the space.
He pushed her onto the mattress.
She landed on her back, her breath catching as he climbed over her, his body caging hers against the sheets. His hands found her cut-offs and yanked them down, then her underwear, then his fingers were inside her without preamble, rough and demanding.
"You're already wet," he said.
"I've been thinking about you all day."
"Liar."
"Not about you. About this."
She gasped as he added a third finger, stretching her, filling her.
"About what I was going to do to Christian. About the look on his face when I cut him."
"You're a sick fuck."
"Takes one to know one."
He pulled his fingers out and shoved his trousers down. His cock sprang free—thick and hard and already leaking—and he didn't waste time with foreplay. He just pushed into her, one brutal thrust that made her scream.
"Fuck," she gasped.
He didn't answer.
He just started moving.
The rhythm was punishing—hard and fast, his hips slamming against hers with every stroke. The bed creaked beneath them, the headboard hitting the wall, and she knew Christian could hear it. Knew he was sitting in that basement, chained to a chair, listening to the man who'd bought her fuck her like she was his property.
Good.
Let him hear.
Let him know what he'd lost.
"You're thinking about him," the Alpha King said.
"I'm thinking about you."
"Bullshit."
He grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him.
"You're thinking about him. About what he did to you. About what you're going to do to him."
"So what if I am?"
"So am I."
He kissed her.
It was rough and demanding, his tongue shoving past her lips, his teeth biting down on her bottom lip until she tasted blood. She moaned into his mouth, her hips rising to meet his thrusts, her nails raking down his back.
"Harder," she said.
He obliged.
The bed slammed against the wall. The lamp on the nightstand rattled. She could feel the orgasm building—hot and tight and desperate—and she didn't try to hold it back.
"Come," he ordered.
She did.
The orgasm ripped through her, violent and sudden, her cunt clenching around his cock like a fist. She screamed—something wordless, something raw—and he kept fucking her through it, driving into her over and over until she was shaking, sobbing, clawing at his shoulders.
"Good girl," he said. "Good fucking girl."
He pulled out and stroked himself once, twice, and then he was coming—hot ropes of it splashing across her stomach, her breasts, her throat. He groaned, low and guttural, and she watched him ride out every pulse until the last drop fell.
He collapsed beside her.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was their breathing—ragged and heavy—and the distant hum of the city outside the windows.
"His name is Christian Mercer," she said finally.
"I know."
"He's been working with Valentina for two years. Feeding her information. Helping her build a case against you."
"I know."
She turned her head to look at him.
"You knew?"
"I suspected."
"And you didn't tell me?"
"I wanted to see what you would do."
She stared at him.
"You wanted to see if I would kill him."
"I wanted to see if you would choose."
"Choose what?"
"Me or him."
She was quiet for a long moment.
"I chose me," she said.
He smiled.
It was a real smile—the first one she'd seen from him—and it transformed his face. Made him look younger. Almost human.
"Good answer," he said.
He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face.
"Now go shower. You have blood on your hands."
She looked down.
He was right. Christian's blood, dried and flaking, was crusted under her fingernails and smeared across her palms.
"I'll be back in twenty minutes," she said.
"I'll be here."
She rolled off the bed and walked toward the bathroom. At the threshold, she stopped.
"Adrian."
He looked up.
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For letting me choose."
He didn't answer.
But she saw something shift in his eyes—something soft and unexpected—and she knew he understood.
She stepped into the bathroom and closed the door.
The shower was hot and long, and she scrubbed the blood from her hands until the water ran clear. When she was done, she wrapped herself in a towel and walked back into the bedroom.
Adrian was asleep.
He lay on his back, one arm flung across the pillow, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. The scar on his eyebrow caught the light, a pale line against his skin.
She stood there for a moment, watching him.
Then she pulled on a clean shirt and a pair of his sweatpants, and she walked back down to the basement.
Christian was exactly where she'd left him.
He looked up when she entered, his eyes red-rimmed and desperate.
"Elena—"
"Shut up."
She pulled a chair from the corner and set it in front of him. Then she sat down, crossed her legs, and folded her hands in her lap.
"Tell me about Valentina," she said.
And he did.
He started talking and once he started, he couldn't stop.
The words came out of him like water from a cracked pipe—slow at first, then faster, then flooding. He told her about the safe house in Branson, the one with the green shutters and the dead bolt that stuck if you didn't lift the door when you turned the key. He told her about the wall safe behind the painting of the sailboat, the combination that was his mother's birthday, the documents inside that detailed every transaction he'd ever made with Valentina.
He told her about the burner phones he kept in a shoebox under his bed.
He told her about the dead drops, the encrypted messages, the coded language they'd developed over two years of secrecy. He told her about the meetings in parking garages and late-night phone calls and the way Valentina's voice sounded when she talked about Adrian—like she was sharpening a knife.
Elena listened.
She didn't interrupt. Didn't ask questions. Just sat in her chair with her legs crossed and her hands folded and her eyes fixed on his face.
Christian's voice cracked and wavered and sometimes dropped to a whisper.
He told her about the money. The money he'd stolen from Adrian—fifty thousand, skimmed off the top of a deal in Tulsa, hidden in a duffel bag in the trunk of his car. He told her about the woman—Adrian's wife, yes, but not the way she thought.
"I didn't fuck his wife," Christian said.
His voice was raw. Desperate.
"I didn't steal the money. I didn't do anything. You have to believe me."
Elena didn't blink.
"You literally beat the shit out of me for no reason," he continued. "I didn't do anything."
She stood up.
The chair scraped against the concrete floor—a harsh, grating sound that echoed off the walls. Christian flinched like she'd struck him.
"You're pathetic," she said.
Her voice was quiet. Flat. The kind of quiet that came before a storm.
"You're a coward. You deserve what's coming for you."
She walked toward him, her bare feet silent on the cold concrete. The hunting knife was in her hand again—she didn't remember pulling it from her boot, but there it was, the blade catching the light.
"You won't be stealing any wives or breaking any hearts anymore."
She stopped in front of him.
"And I'm doing this by my own choice. For myself. And for him."
Christian's eyes went wide.
"Elena—"
"Shut up."
She pressed the tip of the knife against his thigh, just above his knee. He whimpered, his whole body going rigid.
"You think I'm a dirty bitch?"
The blade pressed harder. A bead of blood welled up around the steel.
"You think I'm pathetic? You think I'm a coward?"
She dragged the knife up his thigh, slow and deliberate. The blade carved a thin line through the fabric of his trousers, through the skin beneath, leaving a trail of red that gleamed in the flickering light.
"I learned from you, Christian."
She stopped at his crotch.
The knife hovered there, the tip resting against the seam of his trousers. He was shaking now, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
"Please," he whispered. "Please don't."
"You begged me to stay with you. You begged me to trust you. You begged me to believe you loved me."
She pressed the blade down.
"You don't get to beg anymore."
She stabbed him in the dick.
The knife went in at an angle, just below the belt, through the fabric and the flesh and whatever was underneath. Christian screamed—a high, animal sound that bounced off the concrete walls and filled the basement like smoke. Blood gushed up around the blade, dark and hot, soaking through his trousers and spilling onto the chair.
Elena twisted the knife.
Christian screamed again.
She pulled it out.
Blood followed—a pulsing rush that wouldn't stop, that spread across his lap and dripped onto the floor in a growing puddle. He was sobbing now, his body convulsing against the chains, his hands clawing at the air.
"And no Valentina," Elena said.
She looked at the knife in her hand, then at Christian's face. He was pale, almost gray, his eyes rolling back in his head.
"You thought you could give me to him. You thought you could trade me like a car or a watch or a piece of jewelry. You thought I was something you could own."
She stepped closer.
"You were wrong."
She grabbed his hair and yanked his head back, exposing his throat. The knife was still wet with his blood—it made her grip slick, but she didn't care.
"You're going to die here, Christian. Not quick. Not clean. And I'm not going to feel a single thing."
She pressed the blade against his neck.
"Because no remorse means no hesitation."
She drew the knife across his throat.
Slow. Methodical. From ear to ear, the way you'd cut a pig. The blade was sharp enough that it didn't take much pressure—just a steady hand and a deliberate motion. Blood poured from the wound, dark and arterial, spraying across her shirt, her face, her hands.
Christian gurgled.
His body jerked once, twice, then went still.
Elena watched the light leave his eyes.
She didn't look away. Didn't flinch. Just stood there with his blood dripping from her chin and her knife still in her hand, and she felt nothing.
No remorse. No hesitation.
She repeated it to him, even though he couldn't hear her anymore.
"No remorse means no hesitation, Christian."
She took the knife and turned around.
Adrian was standing in the doorway.
He'd come down at some point—she didn't know when, didn't know how long he'd been watching. His gray eyes were fixed on her face, on the blood soaking her shirt, on the knife in her hand.
He didn't say anything.
Neither did she.
She walked past him, through the door, up the stairs. Her bare feet left bloody prints on the concrete, on the steps, on the marble floor of the hallway. She left a trail of red from the basement to the bedroom, a path that anyone could follow.
She didn't care.
She walked to her room—the guest room where she'd slept the first night, where her purse still sat on the nightstand, where the key to her father's farmhouse waited for her.
She closed the door behind her.
She had blood all over her.
It was in her hair. On her face. Soaked through her shirt and her sweatpants, staining the fabric a deep, dark red. Her hands were covered in it, the blood already starting to dry and crust in the creases of her palms.
She stood in the middle of the room and looked at herself in the mirror.
The woman staring back at her was a stranger.
The woman in the mirror had blood on her face and death in her eyes and a smile—faint, barely there—curving the corner of her mouth.
Elena smiled back at her.
Then she walked to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stepped under the water without bothering to undress.
The blood swirled around her feet and disappeared down the drain.