The compulsion surged, rewarding me with a sickening warmth that dulled the ache in my chest. I hated it. I hated myself.
I turned back to Raffaele, who was still pinned between the guards, his dark eyes locked onto mine. The whip in my hand came alive, glowing brighter as I raised it.
“Vivian,” he said softly. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”
My heart twisted painfully, the compulsion warring with the bond I shared with Raffaele. I didn’t want to hurt him. I wanted to drop the whip, to run to him, to throw myself at his feet and beg for forgiveness.
But I couldn’t.
The whip cracked through the air, the glowing tendrils striking his chest and leaving a searing mark across his skin. He didn’t flinch.
“It’s okay,” he reassured me. “I love you, Vivian.”
The words cut through me like a knife, their weight so heavy I nearly dropped the whip. I raised it again, my movements stiff and mechanical.
“Stop it,” I hissed, though I didn’t know if I was speaking to him or to myself.
Another strike. The whip sliced through the air, its glow intensifying as it bit into his skin.
Raffaele didn’t cry out. He didn’t beg me to stop. He just stood there, his body tense but his eyes unwavering as they stayed locked on mine.
“I love you,” he said again, his voice breaking slightly.
Tears blurred my vision as I struck him again and again, each blow sending a ripple of pain through me as though I were the one being hurt.
“I love you,” he said with every strike, his voice growing softer but never faltering.
The compulsion screamed inside me, a relentless pressure that crushed every thought, every memory, every emotion that wasn’t tied to Izo. But Raffaele’s words, his eyes, his presence—they anchored me, tethering me to the part of myself that was still fighting.
47
RAFFAELE
The whip sliced through the air and landed across my chest with a sharp crack. Agony bloomed instantly, white-hot and searing, tearing a ragged gasp from my throat. My knees threatened to buckle, but I forced myself to stay upright. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. I wouldn’t givehimthe satisfaction.
But it wasn’t just him. It was Vivian. My wife.
The woman I’d sworn to protect.
She stood before me, her body taut and trembling as if she were a puppet on strings. She gripped the handle of the whip tightly, though I could see her hand trembling. Her eyes—gods, hereyes.
They weren’t hers.
The warm, defiant light I loved was gone, replaced with a fractured, foreign hollowness. Every strike of the whip cut deeper than flesh. The pain of losing her, of seeing her like this, tore into my soul. It was infinitely worse than the sting of the weapon.
The whip came down again, this time catching my neck. Stars exploded in my vision as I staggered back, the damp coral chains digging into my wrists and holding me upright.
“Fuck,” I hissed through gritted teeth, not only from the pain, but from the sheer helplessness.
The whip hovered in the air for a moment, glowing faintly as if savoring its next move. I forced myself to look at her, to focus on the woman holding it instead of the agony it brought.
“It’s okay, Vivian,” I said. “I’m fine. I love you.”
Her hand twitched, and for a fleeting second, I thought I saw her hesitate. But then her lips pressed into a tight line, and the whip lashed out again.
The strike didn’t matter. None of it did. All I could think about was the way her shoulders shook, the way her chest rose and fell with shallow, panicked breaths.
“Vivian, it’s okay. I’m not mad at you.”
