Chapter 208 The Little Torturer
Moonlight streamed through the broken rafters of the dilapidated building somewhere in Suriname, casting silver beams across Chris Jensen's blood-streaked body. He was bound to a wooden chair, his once-pristine white shirt now torn and crimson-stained. His breathing came in controlled, measured intervals despite the obvious pain.
Liana circled him slowly, a leather whip dangling from her small hand. Her youthful face and petite frame created a disturbing contrast with the cruelty in her eyes. She flicked her wrist with practiced precision, sending the whip cracking across Chris's chest. A fresh line of blood appeared, joining the constellation of wounds already marking his torso.
Despite the fresh wave of pain, Chris's lips curled into a low chuckle. His eyes reflected a dangerous calm that seemed to unnerve his captor.
"Something funny, Mr. Lawyer?" Liana asked, her voice childlike yet chilling.
Chris tilted his head, blood trickling down his temple. "Just admiring your technique. Amateur, but enthusiastic."
Liana's face contorted with rage. "You killed Marcus! You should be begging for mercy, not mocking me!"
"Your Scorpio family burns villages, traffics people, and murders innocents," Chris replied, his voice impossibly gentle despite his condition. "I was merely balancing the scales. Ironic though—a criminal like you playing God's judgment on someone serving justice."
The whip cracked again, catching him across the shoulder. Chris barely flinched.
"You dare laugh at me!" Liana's eyes flashed dangerously. "I'll flay you alive and feed you to the snakes piece by piece!"
She raised the whip again, but a knock at the door interrupted her. A nervous-looking man entered, keeping his distance from Liana.
"What?" she snapped.
"The family head wants the American lawyer released," the man said, avoiding her gaze.
Liana's grip on the whip tightened.
Another man came in. "Kane demands the prisoner be handed to him. For his son's death."
"Tell Kane I've already moved the prisoner," Liana decided. "And tell my father I'll handle this my way."
---
The next morning, Chris awoke to find his wounds had scabbed over, his shirt sticking to the dried blood. Every slight movement sent waves of pain through his body. He hadn't been given food or water since his capture, and his throat felt like sandpaper.
The room was stifling hot, the tropical humidity making his wounds feel as if they were on fire. Flies buzzed around him, attracted to the smell of blood and sweat. Chris tested his restraints again—too tight to slip out of, professionally done despite Liana's apparent youth.
Hours later, Liana kicked the door open, carrying a small cup of water. The sudden noise jolted Chris from his half-conscious state.
"Entertain me," she demanded. "Make me laugh."
Chris stared at her silently, his blue eyes cold as winter. His silence was deliberate—giving her nothing was its own form of resistance.
Liana's childish face darkened. "No food or water for him today," she ordered the guard outside. "Let's see how funny he is tomorrow."
The door slammed shut, leaving Chris alone with the buzzing flies and the relentless heat. He closed his eyes, conserving his energy.
---
By the following day, Chris's condition had deteriorated significantly. His wounds were showing signs of infection, his breathing shallow, and consciousness fleeting. Fever burned through his body as he drifted in and out of awareness.
The door crashed open, and Liana entered with another cup. This time, she held it to his cracked lips herself. Chris took a cautious sip, only to immediately spit it out—the water was saturated with salt.
Liana laughed, her eyes gleaming with malice. She dipped her whip in the salt water and brought it down across his infected wounds.
Chris let out a muffled groan, nearly biting through his lip to avoid screaming. The salt burned into his open flesh like acid, his body trembling with the effort to contain his pain.
She left him hanging on the edge of consciousness, the salt still searing his wounds. That night, after three days of torture, Chris's body finally gave out, and he collapsed into darkness.
---
When Chris regained consciousness, he was surprised to find himself in a different room. The ceiling above him was intact, and sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains. His wounds had been cleaned and bandaged, and he was wearing a fresh shirt, though his hands and feet remained bound with coarse rope.
Liana sat nearby, sipping water from a glass. Her hair was neatly braided, and she wore a floral dress that made her look like an ordinary schoolgirl rather than a torturer.
She approached and roughly poured water into his mouth. Most of it spilled down his chest, soaking the shirt and making it cling uncomfortably to his treated wounds.
"Why the change of scenery?" Chris asked, his voice hoarse from disuse.
Before Liana could answer, heavy footsteps thundered through the building. Chris heard doors being flung open in the hallway, followed by angry shouts. Liana stiffened, quickly moving to lock the door to Chris's room.
The footsteps stopped outside, and a fist pounded on the door.
"Liana! Open up!" a man's voice bellowed.
Liana put her finger to her lips, warning Chris to stay silent. She slipped out the door, closing it behind her. From inside, Chris could hear their conversation clearly.
"Where is he?" Kane demanded, his voice contorted with fury. "Where's the man who killed my son?"
"I released him," Liana replied, her voice suddenly cool and collected.
Kane's tone transformed instantly. "Released? Who gave you permission? He killed your brother, and you let him go?"
"My father did," Liana stated firmly. "If you have a problem with that, take it up with him."
The tension in their voices was palpable. After a tense moment, Chris heard Kane and his men depart, their footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Minutes later, Liana returned, her expression grim. "Your uncle seems upset," Chris remarked dryly.
Liana turned to him with a scowl. "Shut up. We're leaving."
---
Two days later, Chris found himself in a border town, a chaotic maze of markets and smugglers. The air was thick with the scent of spices, fuel, and unwashed bodies. Liana had transported him there under cover of darkness, and he had cooperated—Kane would have killed him immediately, while Liana's intentions, though brutal, at least kept him breathing.
They settled in a small room above a noisy tavern. As soon as they arrived, Liana, in a sudden burst of anger, whipped him several more times before calling for a doctor to treat his wounds. The doctor, a weathered local man, asked no questions as he applied ointments and bandages.
"Why didn't you turn me over to Kane?" Chris asked as the doctor left.
Liana's childlike face hardened. "You're my captive. Why should I give you to him?"
"Afraid your Scorpio family would have to answer to my father if I died?" Chris suggested, testing her.
"A life for a life!" Liana snapped. "Why would the Scorpio family fear your father?"
"I didn't kill anyone," Chris stated firmly. "I only burned a few of your family's auction houses. Ask Loki if you don't believe me."
Liana's eyes narrowed. "Why should I believe you? Even if you didn't kill him yourself, your friends probably did. You burned our auction houses—that's reason enough for me to punish you."