By Peter B. and Art Intelli
Chapter Four: The Long Night
The bunkhouse was built like a frontier barracks — thick timber beams, stone floor, heavy iron fixtures bolted to the walls and ceilings. There were no windows, only small vents near the roof and a single industrial fan turning lazily in the corner. The room was dim, lit by a single bulb hanging above the twin beds that filled half the space.
But Peter wasn’t given a bed.
He was mounted to the post.
A heavy wooden pillar rose from floor to ceiling at the room’s center, with rings set at shoulder, waist, and ankle height. The twins had stripped him bare again, save for his collar, and bound him standing with thick leather cuffs to each ring. His arms were pulled back and up, shoulders flexed, chest forward. His legs were spread wide and locked at the ankles. His brand still throbbed on his right hip, raw and blistered.
The collar chafed when he tried to shift. The restraints creaked.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
