Marta had lost track of time in the first cell.

Minutes, hours, days—it all blended into a ceaseless void of darkness and cold.

At one point, the guards ordered her to strip naked and marched her into a tiled chamber. Panic surged—was this the gas chamber? But instead, an icy blast of water hit her. Huddled under the freezing spray with four other women, she shivered uncontrollably. Nearby, groups of men washed themselves under different showerheads, their expressions equally bewildered and terrified. The guards, laughing, didn’t let them have long; she returned to her cell with soap still clinging to her skin, itching incessantly. After that, the only sign that anyone remembered her existence was a periodic bowl of gruel, shoved through the slot in her door by indifferent guards.

Every now and then, she tried to piece together where she might be, but the oppressive silence and isolation made it impossible to think straight. Despair and confusion gnawed at her resolve. Then, this morning, she’d been moved to a new cell. This one had a window, high near the ceiling, letting in a sliver of daylight. There was furniture—an almost laughably domestic touch. It could’ve been a normal office, but for the fact that the desk in the center had been bolted to the floor. Ignoring her questions, the guards had thrust her into a chair and forced her wrists into two waiting manacles. She heard the lock click as the door shut behind her and, after that, she listened to the clock on the wall tick, each second stretching into an eternity.

The door opened some time later, and a new man entered.

She’d never met him before, but she’d recognize the sick son of a bitch anywhere. Even if he hadn’t been in the paper, his father had, and they could’ve been twins. He was handsomer in person, however, which she found disconcerting. He belonged in Hollywood, not in some dungeon.

“Good afternoon, Frau Smith,” he greeted, stopping in front of her. “Welcome to Thorndike Prison.”

“Kaczynski,” she corrected, glaring up at him. “I’ve been here a while.”

“Kaczynski.” He inclined his head in the faintest nod of acknowledgment. “I do regret that you’ve been kept waiting,” he added politely, his voice smooth and practiced, “and that I haven’t, until now, had the chance to introduce myself.” His acted every inch the aristocrat, welcoming a guest to his home, but his eyes were like a lizard’s as he studied her. “I am Klaus Dassel.”

Turning her head, she spat. “I know who you are.”

“Wonderful!” He clapped his hands together. “Then no further introduction is necessary.”

Approaching the table, Dassel leaned against the edge with casual arrogance. His hair was perfectly razored, and the faintest breath of expensive cologne perfumed the air around him. The infamous Butcher of Marblehead undoubtedly spent an hour in front of the mirror every morning, probably got professional manicures, too. Marta wondered, briefly, if he was a fairy. That was more common in the SS than they’d like to admit, girlfriends or no. An image of Bill flashed in her mind, as different from the creature before her as two men could be. Her husband was a normal man, for whom toothpaste was a cosmetic product. She returned the Hauptsturmführer’s smile, and far more brightly; whatever his crimes, she had a hard time being afraid of someone who clearly knew more about skincare than she did. “Some of the lice in this prison,” she remarked, pointedly looking him up and down, “are really large.”

“Manners, manners,” he chided her, his tone laced with amused condescension.

“You followed us,” she accused, her voice steady despite the fear clawing at her insides.

“Naturally,” he replied smoothly, a slight smirk playing on his lips. “And you should thank me. Sometimes, my men let the dogs loose on women. To see what will happen. Barbaric, really. Especially since they tend, in my experience, to go for the breasts.” He straightened, his movements deliberate and precise, exuding a chilling calm as he walked over to the window. “But enough about your little adventure.” Turning, his eyes glittered with a predatory gleam. “I’m given to understand that the hospitality here is somewhat primitive. No beds, toilets, or wash basins.”

She shrugged, masking her anxiety with a façade of indifference. “It’s fine.”

“Sometimes, though, the cook makes special dishes.” His voice had a low, sibilant quality.

She watched him warily, recalling the stories she’d heard about these so-called special dishes. During her shower, there’d been another prisoner in the corner, hunched over and spitting up blood. Some families, the others had explained, sent care packages, and whatever was inside went into a pot. There were candy bars and fruit but also cigarettes, toothpaste. Even things like pencils went in.

The really unlucky prisoners received comfort items like shoe repair kits.

Dassel began to unbutton his service tunic. Marta’s heart pounded. Was he about to assault her? Her stomach twisted at the thought. But then, seeing her expression, he made a dismissive gesture. “Fear not, madame, your virtue is safe with me.” He draped the garment neatly over the back of a chair. “Animals are not to my liking,” he continued, his lip curling with the faintest hint of disgust. “Besides,” he added, brightening, “I hope soon to be a married man.”

Her eyes widened as his words sunk in. “You mean…?”

He favored her with an unpleasant smile. “Yes. Charlotte is still with us.”

Marta’s mouth dropped open in shock. The attack had been intended as a final, decisive act—one meant to sever the thread of life swiftly and surely. She’d felt the resistance of Charlotte’s flesh, the blade sinking deep, and she’d been certain that she’d succeeded. The stark, awful knowledge that she’d failed now twisted like a knife in her own gut, filling her with a sickening blend of rage and regret. All that sacrifice for Dassel to stand before her, unscathed and mocking.

Removing his cufflinks, Dassel knitted his brows together in simulated confusion. “Indulge my curiosity, Frau Kaczynski, if you would. What were you hoping to accomplish?”

“With the clinic,” Marta retorted, her voice sharp and icy, “or your slut?”

“Either,” he replied with a nonchalant shrug. “Both.”

“You took Bill,” she explained, barely holding her rage in check. “I took Charlotte.”

“You failed, I succeeded.” He began rolling up his shirtsleeves, each movement deliberate and unhurried.

She grunted, her eyes narrowing. “At least we burned that baby farm to the ground.”

“No,” he clarified, unmoved. “Some repairs are needed, but no one was hurt. We collected the young woman, too, from the woods. Susan, I believe?” He looked up, his eyes locking with Marta’s. “She’s been returned to where she belongs, a bit bruised but none the worse for wear. All will continue on as it has, which is for the best.”

“But people know, now,” Marta insisted, her voice edged with desperation.

He examined her handcuffs, his fingers brushing against her skin, making the restraints feel even more suffocating. “These seem a bit loose.” His tone was almost clinical as he tightened them to the point of pain, the metal biting into her wrists. “Wouldn’t want you escaping.”

Marta pulled back, testing her bonds, but nothing moved.

A sadistic glint of pleasure lit in Dassel’s eyes, as he watched. “See? So much better. As to the clinic,” he continued, in that same soft tone, “no one knows a thing. This is, I believe, one benefit of our having dispensed with an independent press.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Our papers print what we want.”

“Stop killing your own people, and close the clinics,” she shot back. “There’s an idea.”

He paused, his expression growing thoughtful. “We must all do our duty, for the Reich.”

“Including you?” she challenged.

He tilted his head, considering her. “Yes,” he replied finally. “Especially me. I serve the Reich with my mind, my body, and my soul. Every act, every decision, is a contribution to the greater good. You see, Frau Kaczynski, in a world of chaos, we bring order. In a world of decadence, we bring discipline. The sacrifices we make, the harsh decisions we enforce, are necessary for the survival and prosperity of our people.”

“Necessary?” She spat the word. “You call this necessary?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “I call it the burden of leadership, to make choices that others cannot. It’s the weight of our responsibility, in the SS, to ensure the purity and strength of the future. Sometimes, that requires actions that may seem cruel, but in the grand scheme, they are acts of mercy.” He let the word hang in the air. “Mercy to our nation, to our children.”

She shook her head, incredulous. “You’re delusional.”

That small, disdainful smile returned. “History will judge us, Frau Kaczynski. And history is written by the victors.”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

He disappeared from her field of vision, the echo of his polished boots against the stone floor amplifying her unease. Moments later, he returned, cradling a leather-bound case with a surgeon’s reverence. Placing it on the table, he opened it with a deliberate, almost ceremonial air. Inside, rows of implements glinted menacingly under the dim light. Most of them appeared to be jeweler’s tools—fine, precise, and terrifyingly sharp. Nestled among them were several needles, their wickedly pointed ends promising excruciating pain. The sight of the instruments sent a chill down her spine, her pulse quickening with a mix of fear and defiance. “Does Charlotte know?”

Dassel hesitated. “Does Charlotte know what?”

Marta forced herself to hold his gaze. “That you’re raising bastards for your crazy death cult.”

He blinked and, for a split second, his mask slipped. An emotion she couldn’t quite name—maybe regret, maybe confusion—flickered in his eyes. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it vanished. His features hardened, his expression once again impassive. “Please.” Taking the chair opposite, he studied her with a cool detachment. “There’s no need to stigmatize these children, madame, or their mothers. Each child is a miracle, with or without the blessings of your false god. A woman, too, should bear her lover’s child with pride.”

Marta remembered the look on Susan’s face, as she’d talked about finding out she was pregnant. “Even if her lover is a stranger?”

“Not all of them are strangers,” Dassel replied patiently. “Men have affairs, so do women.” He slid one of the needles from its place. It was long and thick, with a wicked end. “This is a sailmaker’s needle, meant to puncture canvas. But I find that it has other, more creative uses.” He took her left hand and turned it over, his grip almost gentle. With exquisite care, he slid the needle under her thumbnail. Blood bloomed and she hissed, biting down on her lip until she tasted more.

Dassel, meanwhile, seemed to take his time; he clearly savored every moment of her torment. Reaching for a second needle, he pressed it under her pointer finger’s nail. Her vision blurred with tears of pain, but she bit down harder, anything to deny him the satisfaction of hearing her scream.

As he moved on to a third finger, her mind went white with a blinding agony. She forced herself to focus on anything else—Bill’s face, the sound of his laugh, their life before all this madness. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she felt the needle’s pressure intensify. Every instinct screamed at her to beg, to plead for mercy, but she knew that showing any sign of weakness would only spur him on. The realization that she was truly alone in this moment, with no hope of rescue, sent a wave of cold dread washing over her. Yet, beneath the fear, a burning resolve took root. She had to endure, if not for herself, then for Bill and everyone else still fighting.

“What did you give to Fritz?” he asked, almost casually.

“I didn’t.” She sucked in a breath. “Constance did.”

“Loyal,” he commented blandly.

The fourth needle was for her ring finger. “Belladonna,” she managed, through gritted teeth.

Dassel’s expression had shifted, his previous amusement replaced by a chilling focus. He’d known, in the way that seasoned torturers always did, that she would break. Despite their best intentions, no one could withstand pain indefinitely. They convinced themselves that their will was iron, that they were somehow different, but torture was designed to strip away those illusions. It reduced the strongest resolve to nothing, exposed the raw, trembling nerve of humanity beneath. The mind’s desperate need to escape became all-consuming. She could see it in his eyes—a sickening blend of satisfaction and indifference. He’d seen this before, countless times, and he’d see it again.

By the time he’d reached her thumb, Marta was drumming her feet on the floor, the involuntary response to unbearable pain. Needles protruded from beneath each of her nails, tiny rivulets of blood dripping onto the table. It felt like her fingertips were on fire. Each needle seemed to pulse with her heartbeat, a relentless, throbbing misery. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, her vision swimming with tears she refused to shed. Her hands were nothing but masses of tortured flesh and pain, each movement sending fresh waves of agony through her body.

“Unlike the other women I encounter, madame, you are obese.” Dassel stated this fact dispassionately. “You were hiding food, were you not? During the siege, I mean.” She half gagged, half gasped, as he paused to admire his work. Blood dripped steadily onto the table, now, pooling around her fingers. “You must’ve felt quite superior to your neighbors, watching them starve.”

He switched to her right hand, each movement deliberate, relishing the control he wielded. “At my own home,” he offered, “Charlotte informs me that the previous tenants were old and too enfeebled to care for themselves.” He talked to Marta like he was making small talk at a garden party, somewhere between dutiful and bored. “Charlotte shared as much as she could, but Frau Clark’s cancer was already advanced and without treatment…?” He held the needle up, admiring how it caught the light. “Herr Clark froze to death in his bed, on Christmas morning.” His lips compressed in a thin line. “You might wish now,” he murmured, “that I had…simpler tastes.”

She didn’t think anything could hurt more, but then he started to lift the needles. He was slow, exquisitely slow, and seemed to take an almost sensual satisfaction from watching each nail come free of its bed. Blood oozed, the sharp, tearing pain unlike anything she’d ever felt. She screamed, a raw, primal sound, flailing wildly in a mindless effort to escape.

Releasing her mangled hand, Dassel climbed onto the table. She stared at his perfectly polished boots as they moved into position. Without warning, he brought one down, hard, on her left hand. The bones crunched under the force, a fresh wave of pain crashing over her. She vomited, the acidic bile mixing with the blood on the floor. Then he moved on to her right.

When she came to, he’d returned to his seat, watching her with the same reptilian interest as before.

“What’s the point of doing this,” she gasped, “if you’re just going to execute me?”

“Oh, no,” he demurred, a faint, twisted smile playing on his lips. “You misunderstand.”

She blinked, trying to process his words through the haze fogging her mind. “What?”

“An eye for an eye, I believe, is what the Bible teaches.” Producing a disinfectant from somewhere, Dassel cleaned the table in front of him and then swabbed each of his needles in turn. His approach to this procedure brisk, businesslike, practiced rather than hurried. “Charlotte is alive,” he continued, frowning at a needle tip, “and so will you be. For however long the Norns decree. Whether this amounts to six months or six years….” His eyes held hers, his gaze flat. “You call Charlotte slut, as though acknowledging that she might take lovers is some sort of insult. Or, I suppose, in the vain hope that I share your Christian loathing for a woman’s pleasure.”

Marta stared back at him, speechless. The pain from her crushed hands had become a white-hot blaze that seemed to consume her entire being. Every nerve screamed in protest, but the fear clawing at her insides was somehow worse. She was trapped, helpless, at the mercy of a man who looked to be on the verge of orgasm from her suffering. He wasn’t leaving her alive to lecture her, however much he loved the sound of his own voice. It didn’t seem possible, but it was: whatever he’d planned next for her, would somehow be worse. With a shuddering breath, she steeled herself. He might break her body, he might even break her mind, but he’d never break her spirit. As long as she was alive, somehow, she’d keep going.

Dassel closed his case with a soft click. “You attacked Charlotte, because you couldn’t attack me. But the truth, Frau Kaczynski, is that you did.” He hesitated, letting his words hang in the air. “Charlotte is loving, tolerant, and kind. I, as we both know, am none of those things. Which is why I need her, and she needs me to protect her—and why, shortly after I leave this room, I’m driving to the hospital and you’re boarding a train to Vermont.”

That one word alone drove the remaining air from Marta’s lungs.

“You’re familiar with the new camp in Williston, I’m sure.” Dassel’s tone was relaxed, almost serene. “Obergruppenführer Garda, who commands there, has just opened what we in the SS euphemistically call a doll’s house.” His lips curled in a moue of distaste; doll, in German, was slang for whore. “You seem quite preoccupied with sex,” he noted, his eyes flicking over her with derision. “Odd, in a woman so hideous both inside and out. Fortunately, the standards there are low.”

Marta laid her cheek against the metal table, grateful for that small bit of cold against her feverish skin. She’d knocked one of her own teeth out, beating her head against the table in a futile attempt to distract herself from the pain in her hands; experimentally, she tongued the gap, wincing.

“Execution,” Dassel mused, “apart from being arguably unwarranted, is so dignified. You’d go to your death a martyr, if only in your own eyes. So, instead, I’ll make you useful. As I agreed earlier with the Obergruppenführer, your new job will be to entertain those inmates deemed deserving of reward. On occasion, you will also service homosexual men.”

She shut her eyes, fighting the urge to retch again.

“The Reich, in its wisdom, believes that forcing them to experience the, ah, fairer sex can be curative.” Dassel’s tone was rich with disgust. “But this is a form of rape for them, as well—and one in which the Obergruppenführer takes a keen interest. Sometimes,” he added after a moment, “the guards watch. Their stated aim is to ensure that the proprieties are observed, but….” His snort carried a world of meaning. “I think we can both appreciate their real preoccupation.”

“Charlotte,” Marta gasped. “She’ll hate you for this.”

Faint surprise broke through Dassel’s mask. “Hate me? She’ll never know.”

“She’ll ask about me,” Marta reminded him.

“You think so?” He tapped his fingers on his hateful little case. “What an odd conceit. But even if she does….” A newspaper landed in front of Marta’s face. “There’s an article, here,” he volunteered, “which might be of interest to you. Perhaps I should read it aloud, as you do seem indisposed.” From one of the middle sections, he shared with her a short piece that detailed her own tragic passing. “A fire at the Green Dragon,” he lamented, “trapping you in your own flat.”

“Yeah.” She coughed, each word a struggle. “What a way to go.”

Standing, Dassel redressed himself. He turned back toward the door, then paused. “I want you to think about Charlotte,” he murmured softly. “When these men are mounting you. Every time a new man comes into your cell, a new man to whom you are nothing, think about her.”

With that, he left.

A little while later, the door creaked open again.

Sturmbannführer Voight entered, taking Dassel’s chair. “Good afternoon.”

Coughing, Marta spit out another tooth. “Are you going to torture me, too?”

Voight regarded her with his flat, emotionless gaze. “Obersturmführer Moritz arrested your husband on my authority. Hauptsturmführer Dassel had nothing to do with it.” Leaning forward, he fixed her with those orbs of ice. “At least, if you’d attacked me, you’d be dead.”

She didn’t believe him. “Zelda thinks there’s no difference between us,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “There is, though. You’re fighting because you’re animals. We’re fighting for freedom.”

Voight’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “There is no such thing.”

She swallowed hard. “I have information.”

“Yes,” he acknowledged.

“I can’t go to one of those places,” she pleaded. “I can—

“Shut up, slattern,” he interrupted, his voice devoid of heat, filled only with distaste. “I’m going to unchain you,” he continued, producing a document. “And then I have something for you to sign.”