Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 61469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
As I had programmed them to do, three micro-drones had traveled at supersonic speed the moment the signal had popped up, to penetrate the station’s ventilation system. Now their feed popped up on my screen: they had found Lorna, tied to a wooden punishment frame in what was all-too-obviously an interrogation chamber.
I watched Horakovsky take an implement from a cabinet and walk around the frame to show it to Lorna, who trembled at the sight. With fury rising in my chest, I recognized it instantly as a Russian knout, one of the cruelest instruments of punishment man had ever devised. But fury without precision was useless. I compartmentalized the emotion, filing it away for later.
In the feed from the drones still outside the facility, the strike team moved like ghosts across the frozen landscape, their thermal signatures masked by specialized suits developed in my own laboratory. Through their helmet cameras, I watched the facility’s exterior defenses fail to respond. Lorna had bought us our window.
I pulled up her vitals again. Heart rate 165. Blood pressure elevated but not critical. The neural discipline implant showed signs of activation—Horakovsky’s detector must have picked it up. I cursed myself for not anticipating that possibility, though the technology to detect Freya’s Bridle was supposedly limited to a handful of intelligence agencies.
“Breach team in position,” came Henrik’s report through my earpiece. “Awaiting final authorization.”
The drones had managed to hack the station’s own security now. I glanced at a secondary screen showing Takken passed out in what appeared to be guest quarters. The man’s blood alcohol content, extrapolated from his biometric readings, suggested he wouldn’t wake for hours. One less variable to manage.
“Execute,” I commanded.
Lorna
I heard Horakovsky’s footsteps circling behind me, the soft whisper of leather against his palm making my whole body tense against the wooden frame. The knout. I’d seen illustrations in history books during my university days—nine leather thongs braided together, each one capable of intense pain. The tsars had used them to break revolutionaries, to extract confessions, to destroy spirits.
“Such an elegant tool,” Horakovsky said conversationally, trailing the leather across my exposed backside. The touch was almost gentle, a lover’s caress that made the threat all the more terrifying. “The knout has a long history in my homeland. It teaches lessons that modern methods simply cannot match. This one is designed not to break the skin, in order not to damage a beautiful piece of ass like you, but I think you’ll find it painful enough.”
I tried to control my breathing, tried to find that place of calm my Herra had shown me, but terror made my heart hammer against my ribs. The manacles bit into my wrists and ankles as I instinctively tried to pull away from the leather’s touch.
“Now then,” he continued, moving to stand where I could see him in my peripheral vision. “Let’s discuss what you’re carrying inside that pretty body of yours. My detector doesn’t lie, Lorna. There’s sophisticated electronics embedded in your pelvic region. Quantum-encrypted transmission capability. Military-grade bio-integration.”
He paused, letting the implications hang in the air. “So I’ll ask you one more time, and I suggest you answer truthfully. Who. Sent. You?”
“No one,” I gasped, my voice breaking. “I swear, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Maybe it’s medical? Maybe my husband had something—”
The first strike of the knout cut off my desperate lie. Fire exploded across my thighs, nine lines of agony that made me scream in terror. The sensation was unlike anything I’d experienced—not the focused burn of a strap or even the cruel sting of his flogger, but something that seemed to reach into my very bones.
“Wrong answer,” Horakovsky said calmly.
The second strike landed higher, right across my bottom. The third caught me diagonally, across my thighs again. I lost count after the seventh strike. Each one sent fresh agony cascading through my nervous system, the nine braided thongs leaving trails of fire that overlapped and merged until my entire backside felt like one enormous ball of fire. Tears streamed down my face, pooling against the wooden frame.
“Stop, please,” I sobbed between gasps. “I’ll tell you anything, just stop—”
“You’ll tell me anyway,” Horakovsky interrupted, but his voice had changed somehow. The cold calculation remained, but beneath it I heard something else—something darker and more primal. “But I confess, there’s a problem.”
He circled around to where I could see his face. His gray eyes had taken on a predatory gleam, and I saw the unmistakable bulge in his trousers. The sight made my insides lurch with horror.
“You see, Lorna, I’m torn,” he continued, setting the knout down on a table. “Part of me wants to whip the truth out of you. But another part…” He adjusted himself through his pants with casual vulgarity. “I’ve been denying you orgasms for hours now. Watching you writhe and beg, seeing your body respond despite your mind’s resistance.”