Three simple words were the spark that finally detonated Valentina's rage.
"Fuck you!" she screamed, her face contorting, veins bulging in her neck as she strained against her bonds with every ounce of her strength.
Chuck's response was his own discarded underwear.
Finding a piece of relatively soft fabric was a luxury, and he had been holding it ready for the moment she opened her mouth. His goal was simple: her limbs were locked, and her only weapons left were her spit and her teeth. To avoid a biological attack or a desperate, rabid bite, gagging her was the only sensible choice.
Valentina understood this perfectly. The moment the cloth was shoved into her mouth, her resistance became frantic. She thrashed so violently that the skin on her wrists and ankles began to tear against the metal and vine. Chuck wasn't finished; he took a length of vine and wrapped it around her head, securing the gag so firmly that no matter how much she bucked, the cloth wouldn't budge.
Deprived of her final means of resistance, Valentina didn't sink into despair. Instead, her pale green eyes fixed on Chuck with a gaze so cold it could freeze blood.
Under normal circumstances, Chuck preferred a willing partner. A woman who enjoyed the "plowing" made for a far more immersive and satisfying experience. But this Russian warrior had a backbone made of iron. Chuck sighed inwardly; if she wouldn't bend, he'd just have to enjoy breaking her.
Chuck cracked his neck and knelt by her feet. He reached for her heavy, mud-caked combat boots. Up close, they were nearly as large as his own, made of thick, non-breathable leather. He unlaced them and pulled them off, revealing not bare skin or socks, but thick clumps of dried grass.
He paused, then realized why. Survival 101: foot health is paramount. She had stuffed her boots with dry grass to absorb moisture and prevent trench foot in the humid jungle. Even in captivity, her experience shone through. What a waste of talent, he thought.
Under her icy glare, he tossed the grass aside and peeled off her black cotton socks. A pair of large, surprisingly clean white feet appeared. Despite the harsh conditions, Valentina was meticulous about her hygiene. Her toenails were trimmed neatly. There was no foul odor—just the scent of leather mixed with the faint, salty musk of sweat. They were size 11 or 12, but on her six-foot-one frame, they looked perfectly proportional.
Seeing Chuck stare at her feet, Valentina's disgust peaked. Her face, sharp and aristocratic, twisted in loathing. She tried to scream "pervert," but it came out as a muffled, pathetic whimper.
Chuck didn't care. He was about to do much worse than look at her feet, so what were a few insults? A defeated warrior's "impotent rage" was nothing but white noise.
He reached for her waist, unbuckling her belt. As he tugged at her stained camo pants, Valentina's struggle reached a fever pitch. Her muscles corded, and the heavy roof beams creaked under the strain of her weight. Because of the shackles, he could only get the pants down to her knees, revealing her powerful, snow-white thighs and a pair of black boxer-briefs.
She wore them for utility—to prevent chafing during long marches. But they were stained now; he had literally punched the piss out of her earlier, and she hadn't had a chance to clean up.
Let's get these off, he thought. But as he hooked his thumbs into the waistband and dragged the black fabric down to her knees, Valentina suddenly went still. Her whimpering stopped.
Chuck looked down and froze.
Her mound was perfectly smooth. Not a single stray hair. The lack of foliage left the tender, crimson slit beneath completely exposed to his gaze.
Chuck was genuinely shocked. A "White Tiger"?
This woman was a six-pack-sporting, leopard-like commando from the harshest front lines on Earth. The contrast between her "hardcore" exterior and that pristine, hairless, pink vulnerability down below was intoxicating. It was the ultimate "gap moe."
The sight sent a jolt of pure lust through him. His spear throbbed, standing hot and rigid against his stomach. He reached out to spread those powerful legs wide to begin his conquest...
Suddenly, Valentina's eyes flared with a murderous light. Her core muscles snapped tight, and she bucked her upper body off the floor.
Chuck flinched, pausing his advance. He looked into her green eyes and saw a deep, mocking sneer. It was a look that said: You think I'll let you win?
Before he could react, Valentina did the unthinkable. Keeping her eyes locked on his in a final act of defiance, she relaxed her arched body and used the momentum to whip her head backward, slamming the back of her skull toward the hard, mortar floor with suicidal force.
Shit! Even with his potion-enhanced reflexes, Chuck couldn't catch her. In a desperate split-second, he reached into his Storage Space, grabbed the first thing he felt, and whipped it under her head.
THUD.
The impact was heavy. Valentina's eyes rolled back as she blacked out instantly. But the sound of a skull cracking like an egg never came.
Thanks to his peak mental stats, Chuck had sensed her intent. He had successfully swapped the concrete floor for a large, raw sweet potato at the last moment. The potato was pulverized, but Valentina was alive, though a large, purple knot was already forming on her head.
Chuck sighed, letting her legs drop. He stood up, his rigid spear slowly losing its edge. He could enjoy a forced conquest, but a vegetable? No fun in that. That was exactly what she wanted—to rob him of the pleasure of her reaction.
He stared down at the unconscious Russian, a grin slowly spreading across his face. He understood her message perfectly: You want to fuck me? Then you'll have to fuck a corpse.
God, she's amazing, he thought. He had planned to discard her after one use, but her suicidal pride ignited a fire of genuine obsession in him. If he could break this woman, the satisfaction would be unparalleled.
He looked at the vines on the ceiling and licked his dry lips. A new plan formed. This was going to be a long game, but she was worth the effort.
He dressed himself, untied her from the beams, and carried her limp body out into the night.
When Valentina woke up again, the world had changed.
She was lying on a soft animal pelt. Beside her was a clay pot of water and a bowl of cold meat broth. She was in a different location—a cave-like structure with stone walls.
She tried to sit up, but a blinding headache tore through her skull. She touched the lump on her head, realizing the night before wasn't a dream. Then she heard the clinking of metal.
Her combat gear was gone. She was dressed in a rough, paper-like fiber tunic and her black socks. The bronze shackles were gone, replaced by heavy metal chains. Her wrists and ankles were linked together, and the center of the chain was bolted to two metal spikes driven deep into the stone floor.
She let out a cold, mocking laugh. She drank the water in one go, tested the chains, and seeing no weakness, sat back down. She ate the cold soup and waited.
Sure enough, footsteps approached. Chuck appeared at the entrance.
"Hi." He nodded, pleased she had eaten.
Valentina didn't say a word. She watched him like a hawk, calculating the distance. If he got close, she would lung for his throat.
Chuck sat on a nearby bed, crossing his arms. "You. Want to live?"
"FUCK. YOU." Valentina flipped him a middle finger—her version of a greeting.
Chuck didn't get angry. "I'll give you... a chance. From now on, every day, I fight you." He pointed to himself, then to her. "You win once, I let you go."
Valentina froze. She processed the words, ensuring there was no mistaking his intent. "Are you sure?" she asked, her voice raspy.
"Absolutely." Chuck smiled, standing up and walking slowly toward her. "We can start now."
Fire sparked in Valentina's green eyes. She balled her fists. She was a professional; yesterday was a fluke in her mind. If he gave her a fair shot, she'd kill him.
But Chuck stopped just outside her reach. "But."
Valentina was already in a combat stance, coiled like a spring. "But what?!"
Chuck's smile broadened. "If you lose... I get to play with you for five minutes. No resisting."
"FUCK YOU!" Valentina lunged, her fist flying toward his face.
Clank! The chain snapped taut. Her knuckles stopped six inches from his nose.
"My proposal is perfectly fair," Chuck said, arms crossed, standing just out of reach of her rage. "Accept? Or not? It's up to you."
It was the same strategy he'd used to break Elena—the "Sunken Cost" trap disguised as a choice.
"Suka..." Valentina growled. She knew it was a trap. But she also knew she was the best fighter on this island. If she could just get her hands on him once...
She slowly lowered her fist. Her face was dark with hatred, but she stepped back to give herself room to move.
"I accept," she hissed. She beckoned him forward. "Come."