• She never went quietly, that was certain. The men would laugh and snigger every time they went to draw her from her cell. She would back herself into a corner, like a hissing alley cat, ready to strike. But for all their laughter, no man ever wanted to be the first to approach.
    She was beautiful, even in darkness. Her dark hair tumbles in curls over her shoulders where she knelt, and her large eyes still flashed, showing a fire no amount of torture could crush. Her pale, ice cold skin was marked with bruises, welts, scars, whip weals, and burns, but she was still strong enough to kick and bite whoever dared touch her first.
    It never took long, of course. She was one thin girl against four or five strong men. But she never stopped fighting. Even as they dragged her from her cell, down the hall to the torture chambers, she struggled. It wasn’t out of fear she battled, no. She’d been told, during her first session, that they had killed her lover. She didn’t believe it. She wouldn’t believe it, not till she saw his ashes. But a part of her knew that, if he was dead, he would be watching her, and she wanted him to be proud. So she never broke, knowing he would be pleased. And that thought kept her strong.
    They’d searched for months for a way to make her break. First, pain. Then, the promise of freedom. Then the promise of death. But nothing had an effect. She fought just as hard, if not harder. Death only made her flash them a soft smile. But, at last, they realized their mistake. And today would be her last day of defiance.
    They threw her to the ground of the chamber, her hands catching herself before her head hit the marble floor. Her eyes quickly assessed the room, the men, and the exits. Four months of the same thing couldn’t quash a lifetime of training. But before she had a chance to do anything, the door opened, and he came in.
    The Marquis had been her only companion in these long months, but this was no comfort. He held the whips, the irons, the knives. He made the threats, the promises and the lies. She smiled at him.
    “Inquisitioner.” She intoned, her voice still sweet, kept in tune by her ‘infernal singing’. She’d taken to calling him that, after learning it infuriated him. But he simply smiled back at her.
    “Always a pleasure, Gebrochen.” She glared. His pet name for her, the German word for “Broken”, was never a good sign. He went to her, stroking her cheek gently, and she jerked her head away. He tutted.
    “Why do you insist on defiance?”
    “It’s my reason to live.”
    “It’s your reason to die.”
    “But at least it’s mine.” She countered. He struck her, hard, across the face.
    “Today, you will break.” He vowed. She sighed dramtically. He said that every time.
    “What is it today, Inquisitioner. The pistol, the poison, the noose, or the knife?” He smiled.
    “None of those. Something…something I think will prove far worse.” He motioned to the guards, and she inhaled.
    “If I’m going down, I’m going down good.” She murmured, her mantra, her vow, and her promise to herself…and to he who had always tried to protect her.
    She was grabbed, of course, hauled towards the stone table in the center of the room. The Marquis was still speaking, and she couldn’t block his words out.
    “You’ve suffered much pain here, Gebrochen. And we thought…” he moved closer to her, pressing his body to hers. “Today you might suffer my pleasure instead.” She could feel his hardness through her thin dress, and she froze.
    “No.” She kicked out at him, snarling. “I’ll die first.” No one had touched her like that, saving her lover, and she would be damned if she would let herself be used for some sick man’s twisted ends.
    “I fail to see how you plan to stop me.” Three men dragged her towards the table, and, as she saw the situation growing more dire, she fought harder. Her foot caught one man between the legs, and he let go, leaving her left arm free to scratch at eyes and throats.
    Somehow, she untangled herself, and ran for the door. The Marquis was shouting something, but she didn’t care. If she could only get out that door, she knew there were windows, she could just…
    The door she ran towards opened, and she fell from stopping so suddenly. Looking up, her heart clenched. There was her lover.
    It must have been only a second that they looked at each other, but it felt an age. She drank up his face, eyes re-memorizing every inch of his body, wanting him desperately. He looked as beaten and worn as she did, but in that moment she knew, they’d been keeping each other alive. She breathed his name, and he smiled a lover’s smile. She reached for him, forgetting everything, until two pairs of hands grabbed her arms, hauling her to her feet.
    Neither took their eyes off the other, and she heard the Marquis’s footsteps draw near.
    “Release them.” The guards looked at their commander, but he gave the order again.
    For a moment, the lovers stood, free, just staring. No one was sure who moved first, but within moments, they were in each other’s arms. He clung to her tightly, putting pressure on wounds, which burned, but she didn’t care, she clung just as tight. He was whispering in her ear, words of love, and promises that together, they were strong enough to get out. And she believed him, with every beat of her heart, she believed.
    “Take her.” The harsh voice cut the air, and it all flooded back. Hands grabbed the both, tearing them apart. Her lover roared her name as she was dragged from his arms, men holding them both away from each other, dragging her back to that table.
    She suddenly realized there was no way out. This was just another torture.
    “No…” she breathed. “NO!” But there were too many men on her, tying her to the table as the Marquis approached. “Please.” She begged. “Not him, please, leave him from this.” The dark man mearly smiled and dropped his outer robe.
    “Who do you think.” He said conversationally, glancing to wear her lover was held, straining. “Will be more tortured? The raped little girl?” he stroked her cheek, “Or the lover, forced to witness it?”
    She shook her head, tears streaming over her face. “Please, Lord. Not him, let him go. Do not make him witness, I’ll kneel at your feet and call you Master, if you will but let him leave.”
    He ignored her, removing his shirt as he turned to the guards.
    “Hold him, do not let him look away. He must see what happens when he fails so utterly in protecting what he loves.”
    She remembered her dress being cut away, remembered the cries of her lover, his anguished voice. The pain and burn of the Marquis’s invasion. She remembered screaming her lover’s name, begging him to save her, forgive her, forget her and run. She remembered her lover falling to his knees. And she remembered every moment, the Marquis’s eyes locked on her face.
    When it was over, they were thrown into a cell together. She was bleeding, but her lover would not touch her. He’d tried, tried to take her in his arms, to soothe her wracking sobs, but she’d pushed him away, retreating to her corner of the cell, horrified and beaten by her own weakness.
    The prettiest broken girl that you’ve ever seen.