“She had to leave early, Monsieur Toussaint,” one maid replied. “A death in the family, Monsieur Hakim said. She left so quickly she didn’t take her luggage. We’ll have to send it after her.”
A death in the family, all right. Her own. The suitcase was still by the door, and he considered warning the maid that she’d be better off not noticing discrepancies like that one. Not if she wanted to live.
But he wasn’t in the business of saving innocents, so he said nothing, simply nodded, and went back to his room.
He was in the shower when he thought he heard her scream. He shut off the water immediately, but there was nothing. No noise, no cries. If by some cruel twist of fate she was still alive she would hardly be within hearing distance. Hakim would have taken her into the old part of the building, the wing that looked as if it had yet to be remodeled, yet was fitted up with state-of-the-art electronics and soundproofing. He wouldn’t hear her if she screamed. Besides, knowing Hakim, it would be long past the time when she could make any kind of noise at all, even a whimper. He simply had to put it out of his mind—it wasn’t in his nature to have regrets, or second thoughts, or even compassion.
He dressed quickly, in black. Comfortable pants and a shirt pulled over his head. He tied his long hair at the back of his neck, shoved his feet into a pair of boat shoes and went to the door.
A little after midnight. Monique would come in search of him before long. He’d considered disabling the surveillance cameras in his room, just to spite the baron, and then thought better of it. He could only push things so far, and the man he was pretending to be, the man he had become, would appreciate an audience.
He opened his door into the empty hallway. The servants were gone from the room next door, and the door was open. All traces of Chloe Underwood had vanished from the Château Mirabel, gone as if she had never existed. Gone from his mind as well, another casualty easily forgotten. And for the first time in years he made an irrational, even emotional decision. Except that he had no emotions.
He was going to find Chloe.
He closed the door behind him and started toward the closed-off wing of the building. If she wasn’t dead yet at least he could hurry Hakim along. Sentimental or not, he didn’t want her to suffer. Saving her was out of the question, but he could spare her suffering. Perhaps he had that much humanity left.
He found her huddled in a corner of the room Hakim preferred for interrogation, and she was weeping. Still alive, though she wouldn’t be for long, Bastien thought dispassionately as he closed the door behind him. Hakim turned to look at him, a startled expression on his face.
“What are you doing here, Toussaint? You told me you weren’t interested in playing with Miss Underwood. I’m not sure I want you to change your mind.”
He’d shed his jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned his shirt. His thick, hairy chest was damp with sweat, and he was clearly in a state of sexual excitement as he held the thin stiletto blade over the blowtorch.
He could smell the scorched flesh. He looked back at Chloe. She was no longer wearing her fuck-me underwear—somehow she’d managed to change before Hakim had come for her. She was wearing dark pants and a shirt. Or had been. The pants’ legs were slit open, exposing her long legs, and the shirt was pulled down on her arms, exposing her chest and the plain white bra she wore.
He could see the marks. Hakim had used the knife to both cut and burn, and he’d been busy making a pattern on Chloe’s arms. She hadn’t gone into shock yet, but it wouldn’t be long. She knew he was there, but she didn’t look at him, just sat huddled in the corner, her eyes closed, head back against the wall as she silently wept.
“I’m not going to interfere with your fun, Gilles,” he said. “I just thought I’d watch a master at his work.”
She opened her eyes for that, staring straight at him through the shadowy room. He looked back into her brown eyes, and saw himself clearly for the first time. Who he was, and what he had become.
“Feel free,” Hakim said. “Unlike you, I always enjoy an audience. She’s really very pretty, isn’t she?” He moved over to her, lifting a strand of thick hair with the hot knife. It sizzled against the blade, and a hank of it fell onto the floor.
“Very pretty,” Bastien said, watching her. He hadn’t touched her face yet—that would come later. He’d never had to stand and watch Hakim’s work, but he’d heard enough stories to know exactly how it would proceed.
He could do nothing, nothing to stop him. He should never have come here, seen her there, but he’d always done what needed to be done. “The baron was asking for you,” he said suddenly. “There’s a problem with the Iranians.”
“There’s always a problem with the Iranians,” Hakim grumbled. “How serious is it?”
“Serious enough. I don’t know if it can wait until morning.”
“Anything can wait until morning,” Hakim said, drawing the knife down Chloe’s arm, searing the flesh. She didn’t scream. “You see how obedient she is? Very easily trained. I told her if she made too much noise I’d use the knife between her legs. She’s already had you there tonight, and I’m thinking that was enough.”
Bastien said nothing. She’d closed her eyes again, and he noticed how pale her face was beneath the silent, streaming tears.
“You think I might make her stop crying?” Hakim murmured dreamily. “I could cut out her eyes.”
Chloe jerked, then went still again. “Maybe you should check with the baron,” Bastien suggested. “After all, we’re here to work, not have fun.”
Hakim turned and pouted. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “There’ll be someone else…there are always pretty girls who stick their noses where they don’t belong. I’ll just finish her now.”
Chloe couldn’t have moved even if she thought it would do her any good. She’d tried to run, earlier, but he’d hurt her so badly she’d passed out, only to come awake in this horrible little room, feeling the hot blade against her skin.
She had lost the ability to think, to reason. She was going to die at the hands of a monster. A sadist exquisitely tuned to the nuances of pain. She had accepted the fact that she was doomed, that there was nothing she could do about it, when Bastien had walked into the room.
Not for one moment had she hoped he’d come to save her. She had no such illusions—he was as violent and evil in his own way as Hakim was. In a way he was worse, because it was hidden so deeply beneath his elegant exterior.