Final Debt

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” I struck again, this time on his other thigh. The denim of his jeans protected him a little, but his cry boomeranged around the space.

A sour taste filled my mouth as self-hatred settled around my heart. I hated that feeling his pain meant I couldn’t enjoy it. I couldn’t appreciate the power as I delivered a dose of his own medicine, finally demonstrating what an awful disciplinarian he’d been.

His breathing stuttered as pain flashed through his system. I hadn’t struck hard enough to break bones, but he would have a hell of a bruise.

Striding around the table, I stroked the black club. The heavy rubber was dense and threatening. There would be no escape. “What did you tell me once? That I could cry and scream as loud as I wanted and no one would hear us…?”

His eyes glowed, meeting mine. Sweat shone on his forehead. His arms fought the buckles as his knees trembled from adrenaline.

“Answer me.” I struck his chest. The side of the club delivered with perfect precision against his lower belly.

“Ah, fuck!” Cut’s spine bowed, his entire psyche wanting to curl up around his injuries and hide. Any sign of regret or shame at doing the wrong thing drowned beneath his sudden need for relief.

That I could deal with. Feeling another’s pain had been a by-product of my condition all my life. I’d never grown used to it. However, if I stood in a room with someone dying or mortally wounded, I would eventually become numb then catatonic from their agony.

The same would happen if I continued with my father.

I had to finish what I’d started before I slipped into insanity.

He hadn’t paid enough yet. He hadn’t learned what he needed.

I’ve withstood worse.

I could stomach delivering more punishment.

Tucking the club into my waistband, I stalked around the table.

Cut gasped, his eyes watering but doing their best to follow me. “What do you want me to say, Jet? That I’m sorry? That I regret what I did and beg for your forgiveness?”

He stiffened as my hands drifted toward the lever he’d used so often. Words tumbled from his mouth. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry for asking so much of you when I knew you struggled. I’m sorry for hurting Jasmine. I’m sorry for what I did to Nila. Fuck, Jet, I’m sorry.”

“Not good enough.” Curling my fingers around the sweat-polished wood of the lever, I murmured, “I think we can do better than that.”

My muscles bunched as I pushed on the mechanism. The first crank sounded like the gates of hell opening up, groaning and howling as ancient wood slipped into motion after so long.

“Wait!” Cut wriggled as the leather slowly tightened around his wrists and ankles. “Listen to my thoughts. Pay attention. I’m telling the truth.”

The sad thing was he did speak the truth. He honestly was sorry. He burned with apologies and willingly took possession of everything he’d done.

But it wasn’t enough to be sorry. He had to wish he’d never done it in the first place.

Taking a ragged breath, fighting through my weakness and fever, I cranked the lever again. The cogs and prongs slipped into place, welcoming each twist. Ducking over Cut, I pressed a little harder, pulled a little tighter. “Ready to grow a few inches?”

Cut squeezed his eyes. “Please…”

“You don’t get to beg.” I jerked the lever, pushing a full rotation.

The rack obeyed, separating beneath him, pulling Cut’s extremities into agonising tightness. The skin on his hands and feet stretched like an accordion played to maximum, turning his flesh red as it yanked him in two directions.

Cut screamed.

I pushed again.

The table fought Cut’s body, snarling against the unwilling tension, causing him to stretch beyond natural comfort.

He screamed louder.

My ears rang and my condition spluttered as too many thoughts collided in Cut’s head. I felt sick for becoming this monster—a beast willingly taking my father’s pain. But at the same time, I felt redeemed—as if I’d finally become the man Cut wanted me to be and only now deserved his praise.

“Tight enough for you?” My question was hidden in Cut’s groans as I pressed the lever once more.

The shifting parts of the rack obeyed, slipping further apart, tearing a few ligaments, cutting into my father’s flesh with its leather cuffs.

Cut didn’t scream again, but a feral cry fell from his lips. His face scrunched up as his skin shocked white with agony. His back arched, his shoulders pulled tight and toes pointing. His hands remained fisted, his fingernails digging into his palms as his body fought to stay together.

I knew what he felt—not because I sensed him, but because I’d been in the exact position he had. I’d been tighter. I’d been younger. His shoulders would be the first to give out. They would pop from position in order for his joints to fight a little longer against the strain. Once the shoulders went, other joints would follow. Depending on how tight the rack stretched, knees would dislocate, tendons would snap, muscles would shred, and bones would break.

This form of torture had been one of the worst used in medieval times—and not just for the victim in the rack’s embrace but for the victims watching it. The sickening rip of body parts giving up the fight. The horrifying pops of joints coming apart.

Confessions were willingly given just waiting for their turn.

Would I go that far?

Would I tear Cut slowly into pieces, tightening his noose until his limbs quit fighting and just disintegrated?