"I will ask this one more time; it is solely up to you how much this hurts." Damon's voice was calm, cold, and he almost hissed at me.
His expression tightened. He was wearing a white t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. This was one of the basement rooms; I recognized it. I was almost naked, strapped into a strong metal chair, with a cannula in my neck. My body was bruised and bleeding, and my face throbbed.
We had been in this little interrogation game for a few hours, and I remained silent, forcing him to escalate. One thing at a time. I knew there was probably some sort of observation window, and others would watch, but I kept my mind focused, as this was one thing I actually took very seriously. So, I kept up my role and used this to strengthen my mind.
His palm hit me across the face, snapping my head to the side, painfully. I spat out blood but kept my expression furiously neutral and almost stupid, making him even more irate. He had a good selection of drug vials on the table, as well as various torture implements, electric tools, and whatnot.
His white t-shirt had red spots where my blood had splattered. He even took on a very Damien-like expression, looking at me like a piece of meat, but it didn't faze me; I had gotten used to it long ago. Our bond was closed, but I had a few little tricks: first, my body language and expressions, and secondly, my pheromones, as well as his. I could read him like an open book, push his buttons, and make him enraged and sloppy.
My silence was hard for him, and the funniest thing in this situation was that at first, he had been pulling his punches, seeing me as some kind of victim, but a few pheromones had made him a little more snappish. As I said, this was fucking useful for me, pitting myself and my tricks against a professional torturer and interrogator who had been in the business longer than I had existed.
A single lamp hung from the ceiling. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of my blood, sweat, pheromones, leather, electricity, metal, and torture. I recognized the smell; it was familiar. He was now free to use his telepathy, but since I had hidden the information in a separate part of my mind, he couldn't access it. This was a lesson for him, a blow to his ego, and perhaps it might even spark something new within him.
I kept my mouth shut as he walked to the table, took a vial, and opened a packet of syringes and needles.
Muttering, "Fine, suit yourself. Let's start. I can assure you, you will talk. You will tell me everything, and more," he drew the drug, adding a touch of psychological torture, knowing my vulnerabilities.
But I was here, playing a specific role, and in this state, his preparations were meaningless. He could draw syringes for the next three hours, and it wouldn't faze me. I had activated a certain mode, and it was a good thing to have, as it made me stronger, more resilient, and capable of enduring even more.
This was as much for me as it was for him. Like an adrenaline junkie, I was always seeking a challenge. And who knew, when this was over, perhaps a domestic life would once more feel sweet.
Then, I would have my mind calmed, as I was trying to control my issues, preventing my neurosis from taking over and stopping my special syndrome—a kind of mental breakdown that would affect my body. After all, I was trying to maintain my health and weight. Currently, I weighed 56 kilos and was aiming for over 70, so I had quite a way to go.
Given my current pregnancy, my daily calorie expenditure was likely 20,000 kcal, which would only increase as the pregnancy progressed. Consequently, gaining weight wouldn't be easy or fast.
Damon eyed me like a slab of meat as he prepared the first syringe. He injected it into my line, and my mind became fuzzy and confused.
"Fine, I can deal with this," I thought, "This makes things more efficient. I can function sedated as well."
Coolly, he stated, "It's a version of Vertaserum, a truth serum. Let's soften you up a bit more, let the drug really hit you before I ask anything."
He walked to a table, retrieving a machine and an electric torture device.
He took the paddles, turned on the power, approached me, and said, "As I said, I'm going to soften you up, nice and long, and then we'll see just how chatty you are."
Fear and terror flared in my mind, but he withdrew them; it disrupted his routine. He wanted to calm me and stab me, and this wasn't the time, so he hit me. That type of play was reserved for other moments. The current jolted through me repeatedly, making me grunt and whimper, unable to scream as my muscles locked up.
But this boy was getting there. It wasn't the worst I'd endured; let's just say an irritated magnum had no restraints when dealing with me. Damon, however, was taking it easy; this wasn't as simple for him. But he would learn soon enough. I could feel his telepathy probing my mind. Fine, I flooded my thoughts with Christmas songs, one after another, pushing him to hit me more.
My goal was to enrage him, make him sloppy, and then show him up. He was still ego-tripping, playing a role, I guessed, his interrogator mode. Too bad, I wasn't impressed. He didn't realize he had the freaking leader of the biggest semi-military resistance organization in his hands, someone who had been leading for 140 years or more.
I hadn't kept track of my tenure, but it had been long enough that I knew my job. I'd done this countless times, and in much rougher ways. I was trying to make him escalate further, for many reasons; one being that he was part of the fleas.
I was the leader, and this was the best way for him to show me his skills. I was in a unique position to see if he was as good an interrogator as he claimed. Oh, I was ready to give him long and detailed feedback afterwards. He had some learning to do; he was too set in his ways.
After he shocked me with electricity for about twenty minutes, I could see a flash of worry in his eyes. Given that I was pregnant, my body's ability to heal was already compromised.
"Tsk, tsk," I thought, "stay in character. No softening."
He then applied more drugs. By then, my system was already flooded with adrenaline. I had diverted twenty percent more of my circulation to my liver, steadily clearing the drugs. While this wasn't an effective method of eliminating them, I maintained my drugged persona. I am, after all, a good actress.
He always believed my act, and I knew how to think slowly to appear heavily sedated whenever he probed me with his telepathy. Next, he produced a nasty-looking platinum knuckle iron and began to beat me, hitting me hard on my belly, shoulders, back, and legs. He didn't spare any strength. I simply grunted or spat bloody foam occasionally.
Finally, he started asking questions about "the thing."
My initial response was, "It's a new type of tire set for luxury cars, expensive because it has a unique patent."
He tried to probe deeper, but this time, I claimed it was a type of screw used in spaceships, difficult to obtain because only four machines in the world produced it. I was good at coming up with increasingly absurd explanations, feeding my husband—or interrogator—utter nonsense, which only enraged him further and made him more careless.
"Oh yeah, this is such an easy target," I thought. "When I get the chance to show him how it's done correctly, I'm pretty sure I could crack him too."
After all, I had cracked Magnum three times and Wulfe once; I was a pretty nasty individual when I needed to be.
"Bullshit! Tell me what it is, and make it less painful!" he roared.
He hit me with electricity and his fists, and I gasped, struggling to catch my breath. I lifted my head, wanting him to see I wasn't as drugged as he thought. As he came closer, I sank my teeth into his arm, tasting his blood.
Of course, he cussed, "Fucking shit!" and yanked my head back, pulling my hair.
I could feel a popping sensation as he ripped my hair out.
He slapped me across the face, screaming, "Fucking piece of shit, you will talk!"
He was truly losing it and didn't bother asking questions anymore, instead opting to beat me into a pulp. My eyes were swollen shut, and I had several broken ribs. Breathing was difficult. He pulled a tight line across his mouth, grabbed several syringes full of drugs, and injected three of them, plunging my mind into chaos.
"Let's see if that cools you off and makes you a bit more talkative," he said.
He unhooked me and dragged me into a separate room. I still had my panties on. He kicked me a few times. The room was cold. Then he walked out, the door clanging shut like the bells of doom.
But I smiled. I rolled onto my side and focused, changing my eyes into feline ones. Yep, no surveillance. Good. Time to act. I took a few deep breaths and focused, letting a bit of my rage out. Oh yeah, that felt nice.
As the damn strong, white-hot power flooded my veins, the pains and aches vanished. I slowly sat up, pushing my ribs back into place, hoping they would fuse a bit. If not, it wasn't the end of the world. Ten minutes later, I was standing, my vision swimming. I was slower, maybe 75% of my normal speed, but I wasn't in a hurry.
A steady pain throbbed between my eyes. My little concoction was ready. Time to give him a decent lesson on how this was done. I walked to the door, focused, and produced a feline claw. As I said, I was slow, and my coordination wasn't on point, but I managed to get the claw into the locking mechanism and used it as a lockpick. The door opened. Time for phase two.
With a slight focus, I changed my shape. A tiny black feline slunked into the shadows. Walking on four paws was easier than on two. I used my nose to pinpoint his location. Oh, he had so much to learn. But then again, I was probably the world's best escape artist, and it would take quite a lot to contain me all the time, let alone extract intel.
It was one reason we did these exercises: to get better, so there wouldn't be anyone who could contain me, so I'd always have the edge, always have the ability to function and escape.
Stealthily, I crept down the corridor. Finally spotting him, he was in a room, preoccupied with dental work. Remaining silent, I carefully controlled my pheromones and fortified my willpower, ensuring he couldn't detect me. Transforming into my human form, I moved with lightning speed, seizing his neck in a brutal grip.
A single twist and he was unconscious. I crouched, sinking my fangs into him and flooding his veins with whatever my teeth offered – velvet at first, and something else, too. Unsure of the specific effects of my velvet, I focused on making it potent, adding a certain "oomph."
Taking several deep breaths, I introduced carefully placed hints into my blood. I knew he could use a spell to find them, but that was part of the lesson. Biting my wrist, I poured my blood into his mouth, ensuring it reached his stomach, where my hints would take effect. I then dragged him to the room where he'd left me.
There, I unleashed my anger, beating him mercilessly. As I'd said, I had issues, and I needed this. Grunting with the effort, I knew I wasn't at my best, but it did the trick. He was bruised, perhaps even more so than I was, but he wasn't pregnant, so he'd likely heal faster – unless I'd given him something to hinder his healing. I didn't undress him.
Instead, in a moment of catty satisfaction, I conjured boxers, slacks, a belt, a dress shirt, a tie, and cufflinks. I also mussed his hair, making it longer and curlier so it flopped over his eyes. Finished, I walked away, still feeling the effects of the fight. My coordination was off, my vision swam, and I ached, but I was utterly smug. Reaching the first floor, I managed to get some clothes on.
Mariella's thoughts echoed in my mind, "I must say, we're watching. Number two and Wulfe cast a spell so we could see. You are a nasty piece of shit."
I retorted, "Takes one to know one, I guess. Damon might just learn this lesson. If not, I can certainly explain it to him. I'm off to recover; I'm drugged up, bruised, and in dire need of a shower."
I sensed dark satisfaction emanating from Mariella. She wasn't in the mood to be gentle with Damon, probably feeling the effects of her pregnancy more acutely. Knowing her history of complications, especially the risk of preeclampsia with multiple fetuses, was understandable.
It was amusing; I'd experienced it in the past, but not as often as she had. My metabolism probably prevented it; my body was functioning too quickly to become stressed like hers. Perhaps her poorer physical fitness contributed, or maybe it was something deeper; how would I know?
I could still feel my five little seeds inside me, meaning they hadn't been too severely impacted. Only time would tell how crazy this pregnancy would become, and how crazy I would get when my hormones fully took over. It felt like they already had. I'd delivered my lesson, and I hoped it would sink in on the first try, not that I was eager to repeat it.
Each time, I became better, faster, more cunning, more armed, and more capable. We'd see if Mr. Salvatore grasped the message, or if his pride would lead him back to Mariella. Either way, it was a win for me. I doubted he'd be dealing with me anytime soon, which pleased my alpha side, or rather, my alpha female side, as I was the one holding the reins.
Little did I know what I was starting. We'd played this game many times before. He was trying to break me, or he'd be with me, trying to break Wulfe, Mariella, or even Magnum. Sometimes, Mariella and I would try to break him or some of the Salvatores. The game is still on, like fleas, within my organization, but nowadays, it's also a pack activity.
It's a fun game of who breaks who. Damon, being who he is, it's not just once that I try to keep my interrogator personality on, working on Charles or Adam. Damon helps me, but seeing me so damn seductive, we end up doing something else; he just can't help himself. He has to have me, and we end up sanctifying our torture chamber rather than getting information out of the target. - Mimi Salvatore.