The Billionaire's Intern (Maya Thompson) novel Chapter 44

Chapter 27: Broken and Breathing-1

Somewhere underground.

The room was cold, Stone walls. A single bulb hanging from rusted wire.

Beckett was strapped to a steel chair, his wrists bound tight with barbed cable. Blood dripped from his nose, mouth, and a split above his brow. One eye was swollen shut. His shirt, once white, was soaked-sweat, blood, and whatever Ashcroft’s men had done to him.

Across from him stood a man in black. Silent. Patient. Watching.

A scalpel in one hand. A cigarette in the other.

“You scream a lot,” the man finally said, tone almost bored. “But you’re not good at it. Sounds like a dying coyote.”

Beckett tried to spit. His head barely lifted. His throat was shredded from hours of screaming and begging.

Now, he was just trying to breathe.

The door creaked open.

Footsteps. Slow. Measured.

Damien entered-immaculate in a dark suit, not a wrinkle on him. Not a drop of blood.

He didn’t look at Beckett right away.

He simply plucked the cigarette from the man’s fingers, took a long drag, then exhaled.

Smoke drifted between them.

Then his eyes locked on the wreck of a man in the chair.

“You drugged her,” Damien said softly, conversational-almost gentle. “Twice. One airborne. One direct. You hit her head hard enough to cause a concussion.”

He stepped closer. Then crouched.

Close enough that Beckett could see his own blood reflected in Damien’s eyes.

“And you almost touched her.”

That was when Damien smiled.

<Chapter 27: Broken and Breathing-1

It didn’t reach his eyes.

“That’s what earns you this.”

+25 Points

He ground the cigarette into Beckett’s chest-hard. Beckett’s body seized in the chair, a strangled sound ripping from his throat.

Damien didn’t flinch.

“Twelve hours,” he said quietly. “That’s how long she was in your hands. That’s how long she was in danger.”

He leaned in closer, his voice turning to steel.

“For every hour… you’ll suffer a full day. Twelve days. Each one worse than the last. And each day… twelve different ways to break you.”

His tone was deadly calm.

“You’ll beg for death. You’ll scream for it. And when it doesn’t come, you’ll wish you’d gotten on that damn plane.”

A beat.

He walked past Beckett-silent, precise-until he reached the metal table against the wall. A surgical tray gleamed under the flickering bulb. Damien’s hand hovered, then selected something without hesitation: a bone saw, small and handheld. Quiet. Personal.

He turned the tool once in his hand-then walked back, his eyes never leaving Beckett’s.

“What’s mine,” he said, voice dark as a grave, “is mine.”

He knelt again, this time pressing the cold edge of the saw gently against Beckett’s cheek. Not enough to cut. Just enough to make him flinch.

“And anything that touches what’s mine…” He smiled-slow, cruel.

“…pays the price.”

Without warning, Damien stood and drove his fist straight into Beckett’s jaw with a sickening

crack.

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