This is Torture

*Rowan*

Wilma looks small seated in the chair in my office. She’s dressed in an old dress someone got her out of one of the stashes of clothes we keep hidden around the forest so we don’t have to stand around naked after we shift. It doesn’t fit her well, and she looks out of place without her uniform anyway.

I sit down across from her and just look at her for several moments. Her eyes are downcast as she studies the handcuffs that hang loosely around her wrists. I’m waiting for her to look at me, but she doesn’t seem capable of doing that at the moment.

With a deep breath, I ask her the question I’ve been asking myself for the past hour or so since Hezzlie realized who our traitor was. “How could you do this?”

One giant tear drips down her face as she sucks in air and says, “I’m so sorry, Alpha.”

She’s still not looking at me, and she hasn’t answered my question, which makes me mad. I would at least like for her to tell me she did it because I’m an asshole, because I’m awful to work for, because all this time I’ve treated her poorly, and she couldn’t take it anymore. But for her to just sit there and cry and let me go on thinking we had a close relationship, almost like family, well, that’s worse somehow than being told I’m a jackass.

“Did you have something to do with them getting in the house the night my father died?” I ask her.

She nods, solemnly. 

So it’s been going on for that many years or longer. I can hardly wrap my mind around it. I think of all the information she’s probably heard from my own lips over the years. I knew she was a gossip, but I didn’t know she was a spy. If I thought something wouldn’t matter to our villagers, I’d say it in front of her, not thinking that information would be getting back to Darksky.

“Who were you working with–over there?” I ask her, wanting to know who else I need to make sure doesn’t make it out of this alive–besides Solomon and Zeb.

Wilma shakes her head. “I can’t tell you.”

“You can tell me,” I counter. “And you will tell me.”

“No,” she says, her voice quivering. “I won’t.”

“Wilma,” I say her name like it’s a command, but she still doesn’t lift her head. “I will get that information out of you, one way or another. We can do it the easy way or the hard way. But it will happen.”

She lifts her eyes to my face then and can see that I’m serious. Torturing an old woman is the last thing I want to do, but I have to know who she’s working with. She doesn’t look at me long before she drops her gaze. “I guess you’ll just have to torture me then.”

I bang both fists down on my desk hard enough to make the floor shake. She jumps but doesn’t lift her eyes. “Are you shitting me?” I ask her. “So whoever it is that you’re in an alliance with over there is still more important than your own pack? You helped them kill the king, kidnap the princess, and attack us when we were most vulnerable. And who knows what else you’ve been in on. Now, I’m giving you an opportunity to partially atone yourself, and you refuse. Why? What in the world could this person on the other side of the battlines possibly have to offer you, Wilma?”

She shakes her head vigorously. “No! I won’t tell! I won’t!”

Frustrated, I stand and walk around my desk. I’ve never touched this woman with anger in my heart. Always, I’ve used the gentle touch of a grandchild toward his grandmother. But she is clearly not part of my family, and she’s saying she’s choosing this other person over her pack anyway.

With a deep breath, I reach out and grab her hand, pulling them both up as they are linked together. I begin to bend her first finger back on her left hand. She’s old–the bones are brittle. She probably has arthritis in her joints. Even wolf shifters can get aching bones. In fact, we’re more prone to it because of all the rearranging our parts have to do. This has to hurt.

I see more tears spring to her eyes as she presses her lips together, trying not to yell or cry.

“Wilma, just fucking tell me. I don’t want to break your finger. Unlike you, I still have feelings for you. I thought of you like you were my own grandmother.” I try to reason with her, but she just sits there, grimacing until the bone breaks, and then she lets out a pained screech and tries to pull her hand away from me. But I’m not done yet. And I won’t be until she tells me the truth.

She’s crying as I move on to the next finger and begin to bend it backward. “This can all be over if you just tell me.”

She shakes her head in defiance. I continue to apply pressure to her middle finger until it also snaps. This time, when she screams, it’s even more agonizing to hear. She’s openly weeping now, and I feel like a monster.

This is clearly not working. I let go of her hands, and they land in her lap, the jarring motion causing her to cry out in pain again.

I let her sit there for a moment while I contemplate what to do next. This is nothing compared to what we usually do to prisoners we are trying to extract information from. Normally, I’d be using a pair of bolt cutters on her fingers, something that would never heal. She’d be beaten and bloodied before I even began. But I can’t do that to her. I need another way.

I sit back down and pick up the phone. Wilma is too busy crying to pay any attention to me. Marigold picks up pretty quickly. “He’s not in the mood,” she tells me.

“That’s fine. I’m not in the mood for him either,” I tell her. “Listen, I need to know who Wilma was talking to on your side. I’m in the process of torturing it out of her right now, but this would all be easier if someone over there just fucking let me know how they convinced one of my most loyal employees–or so I thought–to become a turncoat. So… I need Solomon or someone from your pack to call me back within an hour, or I’m just going to have to kill her.”

I feel the weight of Wilma’s gaze as she looks up at me.

“Kill her?” Marigold repeats, almost in a screech. “She’s just a little old lady.”

“A little old lady who helped your pack murder my father and kidnap my sister,” I remind her. “She made the phone call that led your pack to attack mine last night. Tell Solomon and anyone else you think needs to know that she has…” I look at the clock, “fifty-eight minutes to live unless someone calls me to tell me who it is.”

“But what difference does it make?” Marigold asks. “All of us are your enemies.”

“It matters to me,” I tell her. “I want to know.”

“Fine. It was me,” she blurts out. “There. Are you happy?”

“You’re fucking lying,” I tell her. “I can tell when someone’s not telling me the truth.” I look at Wilma for a second and then add, “Usually.”

“But… you can’t–”

I hang up the phone and stare at Wilma who is finally looking at me. She’s still crying. “Unless you have a name for me, I’ve got nothing else to say to you.”

“H-How are you going to do it?” she asks, her voice still shaking. 

I hadn’t really thought about it. Most of our prisoners are beaten to death when they’ve served their purpose. I can’t do that. “How would you prefer to die?” I ask her.

“Humanly,” she whispers. “I’m an old woman. I’ve been around a long time. I would hate for my last moments to be painful.” She looks down at her twisted fingers. “More painful than they already are.”

“I would think they’d be painful anyway, knowing you’re dying a traitor,” I counter, and she winces. I know that James has concoctions he can use. I’d hate to ask him to be the one to do it, though.

We sit in relative silence after that. I converse with my men through the mind-link as they assure me everyone who was injured today has recovered, and the border is secure. I watch the clock and watch Wilma watch the clock.

Her hour is almost up when the phone rings, startling both of us. I clear my throat and answer, noting the light is on. “Yes?”

“Alpha King Rowan?” an unfamiliar voice says. “Please… don’t kill my mate. I’ll do anything. Anything.”