Chapter 42

Grace stared blankly at the soup bowl from which the spoon had been removed, then suddenly smiled.

"My life is really... "

A private had brought her a bowl of clear soup made from leftover ingredients, calling it breakfast. It was the same menu she always brought to the "torture room guest."

The only solid ingredients were onion roots and carrot tips. The tray held only the soup bowl. There was no more Sally to bring boiled eggs or bread to the captured revolutionaries.

No one was there to give her morphine either.

Her lower abdomen throbbed. Her thighs ached, and her bruised knees hurt. Every time she breathed, her torn nipples brushed against her bra, making her wince.

In the end, the soup was left half-eaten as she lay down on the bed. Fortunately, she had extra sheets in the storage cabinet. No matter how exhausted she was, she refused to lie on a dirty sheet.

Human habits are terrifying. Or perhaps it's their resilience.

After Winston left last night, Grace spent the time until breakfast with surprising diligence.

After a brief nap, she thoroughly cleaned the bed and floor, removing all traces of the previous night's activities.

The torture room maid ended up cleaning up the evidence of her own torture. Should she laugh at the irony or cry?

She tried to wash away the physical evidence of the night, but it wasn't easy.

As the sticky semen and clotted blood washed away, the bruises and bite marks on her body became more pronounced.

Not only that, but the scent of Winston still seemed to linger at the tip of her nose. It should have been completely gone from the bed and her body.

The lingering scent made her shudder, and the animal-like panting she had heard last night echoed in her ears.

So when she closed her eyes tightly, the scene unfolded vividly. The face and naked body of the man who had ravaged her, his eyes filled with the ecstasy of conquest.

"You're leaking milk."

Suddenly, one of the disgusting moments from last night came to mind.

He aligned the tip of his penis with her nipple and ejaculated. The thick, milky fluid piled up on the flat peak before trickling down her pointed nipple and the soft mound below.

Winston had mocked her, saying she was leaking milk.

She didn't think even a brothel would be that low.

"Ah!"

Grace wrapped her arms around her chest as if in belated defense, her body jerking. Even the slightest touch through two layers of clothing made her nipples ache.

Her flesh, swollen from being bitten all night, refused to return to its original gentle shape and remained erect, causing her even more pain.

Grace got up and opened the suitcase by the bed. She covered the blouse, which was pointed from her erect nipples, with a thick cardigan and rummaged through the bag to make sure nothing was missing.

The private who had brought her breakfast had also brought her luggage. They must have opened and inspected it. Fortunately, there were no items containing important information.

"What is this...?"

Nothing was missing, but something that shouldn't have been there was.

The box of high-quality stockings, which she had left on the drawer in the maid's room, was in her suitcase. It seemed the soldier who searched her belongings had mistaken it for hers and put it in.

'This is Winston's.'

She took the stocking box out and placed it on the iron table in the middle of the room, then lay back on the bed.

"Ugh... Ha..."

Her body screamed in pain, but her mind was calm.

'Last night, I felt like I was going to die...'

Today, her heart was strangely calm. Was it resignation or resilience?

After a storm, calm follows, but Grace knew the storm was just beginning.

'Don't waver.'

Today might bring even more pain than yesterday.

Grace berated herself for the selfish thoughts she had when she was pushed to the brink last night.

Over time, one's mental strength erodes. It was only the second day, and she couldn't afford to break down yet.

'Don't waver. Don't waver.'

She was determined, as if brainwashing herself, when someone knocked on the iron door.

It was strange. No one ever knocked on the torture room door. They all seemed to agree that there was no need to respect the privacy of those inside and would burst in without hesitation.

Come to think of it, the private who brought her breakfast earlier had also knocked.

'What is this? Are they being considerate because I'm a woman?'

Grace sat up and replied.

"Yes, come in."

A bitter laugh escaped her. Was this some cruel joke? It was as if she was treating the torture room like her own room.

When the door opened, Lieutenant Campbell entered.

"Sit down."

He pointed to the iron table with the file in his hand. Grace sat in the chair with handcuffs and glanced at the lieutenant across from her.

'Does he know what happened last night?'

She moistened her dry lips and pulled the frilly collar of her blouse up higher. She didn't need to show the lieutenant the raw evidence, even though he probably already knew.

It was too shameful to meet his eyes. The lieutenant also seemed to feel this way, as he didn't look directly at Grace but started the interrogation while looking at the file labeled "Grace Riddle."

"Father, Jonathan Riddle."

"Yes."

"Mother, Angela Riddle."

"Yes."

After confirming her identity, he listed the charges and asked if she admitted to them.

"Infiltration of key military facilities in Winston, do you admit it?"

"Yes."

This was the standard procedure before the real interrogation began. Grace was relieved to see that Campbell was following the usual process.

So today, Winston would report her arrest to the Western Command. Because of her last name, Riddle, she was classified as a high-risk individual. This meant that higher-ups would take an interest in her.

Being a 'big catch' was annoying but could also be advantageous.

Many officers would be involved in her interrogation, and she would always be under many eyes. This would prevent Winston, who valued the dignity of a noble, from treating her like a rabid dog.

She might even be transferred to the Western Command. It was Winston's principle not to interrogate women in this torture room.

'Please...'

Whether it was the Western Command or a detention center, she hoped to get out of here within a few days.

If Winston had released Fred as promised, Jimmy would receive the message today. Then they would organize a rescue team to try to save her during the transfer.

Grace just needed to get out of this house.

"How is Fred?"

The lieutenant nodded, confirming that he had been released.

"Captain Winston is a gentleman who keeps his promises to ladies."

Grace gritted her teeth to suppress a sneer.

A gentleman? How ridiculous. Is he mocking me?

But there was no hint of mockery in his tone.

Has he been brainwashed? He must have heard all the vulgar sounds that leaked out of this room last night.

"Who knows? That gentleman called me a whore."

Campbell glared at the cunning spy with a sly smile. In fact, he was suppressing the urge to call her a whore.

He treated her with respect only because he feared Captain Winston.

Rat, torture room guest, brat, idiot. The captain always referred to the Blanchard rebels with such disdain, but he always called this woman Riddle.

Recalling the captain's face when Wilkinson revealed Sally's true identity, it wasn't surprising.

Leon Winston's face looked like that of a man who had been jilted.

'Ha... Does he like the spy that much?'

Especially from a man who seemed to be the furthest from women.

But it wasn't Campbell's place to advise. The captain already knew better.

Men, especially soldiers, tend to forget the women they conquer. If the captain still hadn't moved on and called her a whore, Campbell would be in trouble. That's why he had instructed the soldiers to treat Grace Riddle with respect.

But this woman...

"Why do you call me a lady, Lieutenant Campbell? Using formal language and knocking on the door is unusual for how you treat a spy."

She kept provoking him to call her a whore.

He didn't want his future to be darkened over a fox he was about to forget.

"Hey, stop trying to stir things up."

Unable to hold back, he issued a warning, and the woman tilted her head.

"Stir things up? So if I tell the captain that you insulted me by calling me a whore, you'll be in his bad books? Why?"

"I ask the questions."

But she didn't listen to him.

"Ah, in that case, it would be more effective to say you tried to assault me. Thanks for the useful information."

What is this woman? Campbell was speechless. The always kind maid was nowhere to be seen.

Campbell saw his superior in the spy. Had she been influenced by the captain? Or perhaps they were birds of a feather who happened to be together.