“You think calling me sick hurts me?” he whispered, his voice low and syrupy, dripping with venom. “Sweetheart, I’ve been called worse by prettier mouths than yours.”
I flinched as he dragged a chair across the concrete floor, the legs scraping a screech that set my teeth on edge. He positioned it directly in front of me, settling into it with an air of casualness that made my skin crawl. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if savoring every agonizing second.
“You want to know what sick really is?” he asked, pulling a jagged blade from his pocket. It caught the dim, flickering light overhead, the edge chipped but still sharp enough to gleam with intent. “Sick is spending eight years with nothing but revenge to keep you warm. Sick is dreaming every night about the ways I’d break you.”
I pulled against the restraints, the rough ropes biting into my wrists and ankles. The metal chair beneath me was ice-cold, seeping through my skin like a parasite. My breaths came in sharp gasps, my chest heaving as panic clawed at the edges of my mind. He saw it. He thrived on it.
“That’s it,” Bentley said, his voice almost gentle, a sickparody of comfort. “Let it in, Dove. Let the fear take over. Fighting it only makes it worse.”
He ran the blade along his own palm, the edge cutting shallow but clean, blood welling up in a dark crimson bead. His grin grew as he held his hand over my arm, letting the blood drip onto my skin, each drop warm and sickening as it trailed down my forearm.
“You know, blood has a way of binding people together,” he mused, his tone light, almost conversational. “It’s intimate. Sacred, even.”
I swallowed hard, my throat dry as sandpaper. “You’re insane,” I rasped.
He chuckled, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through the room. “Maybe. But you’re the one tied to the chair.”
Without warning, he slammed the blade into the table beside me, the sharp sound making me jump. He was out of his chair in an instant, circling me like a predator with its prey. His fingers brushed over the fresh brand on my skin, his touch light but enough to send a searing jolt of pain through my body.
I screamed, the sound echoing in the room, raw and jagged. He laughed, his joy at my agony as clear as day.
“Oh, I like that,” he said, crouching so our faces were level. “Scream for me again, Dove.”
I clamped my mouth shut, refusing to give him the satisfaction. His grin faltered, replaced by a cold, calculating stare.
“Suit yourself,” he said, rising to his feet. “But we’ll see how long that lasts.”
Bentley moved behind me, his footsteps echoing ominously in the empty room. I tried to twist in the chair, to see what he was doing, but the restraints held firm. The sound of metal scraping against metal sent a chill down my spine.
He returned with a long iron bar, the end of it glowingfaintly red. My stomach dropped as he held it up, the heat radiating from the iron warming the air between us.
“This little beauty,” he said, almost reverently, “is going to leave a mark. A masterpiece.”
“No,” I gasped, pulling desperately at the ropes. “Please. Don’t?—”
“Don’t beg,” he interrupted, his tone sharp. “It’s unbecoming.”
He pressed the iron to my ass, and the pain exploded, blinding and all-consuming. My scream tore through the air, raw and primal, as the smell of burning flesh filled the room. My body convulsed against the chair, the ropes cutting deeper into my skin as I writhed.
Bentley pulled the iron away, his expression one of awe, like an artist admiring their work. “Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice soft. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Tears streamed down my face, hot and relentless, as the pain radiated from the burn, mingling with the bruises and cuts that littered my body. I was shaking, my breaths coming in ragged sobs, but Bentley wasn’t done.
He reached for the blade again, dragging it lightly along the skin of my thigh, just enough to draw blood. The sting was sharp, the warmth of the blood trickling down almost surreal. His expression was rapturous, like he was savoring every moment of my suffering.
“This is what I waited for,” he said, his voice almost tender. “Not just your pain, but the breaking of you. The moment you realize there’s no escape. That you belong to me.”
I wanted to fight, to scream, to claw at his face, but my body was betraying me. The pain was too much, my strength drained. All I could do was sit there, tears falling silently as he carved his madness into my skin.
“Good girl,” Bentley whispered, his voice dripping with twisted affection. “You’re learning.”
The room swirled around me, the edges of my vision darkening. I fought to stay conscious, to hold on to the hope that someone—anyone—would come for me. But Bentley’s laughter echoed in my ears, a cruel reminder that this was his game, and I was just his broken little pawn.
Bentley stepped back,tilting his head as he admired his handiwork, the twisted grin never leaving his face. My chest heaved as I fought to steady my breathing, the searing pain from the burns and cuts making it nearly impossible to think. My body felt like it was on fire, every nerve screaming for relief, but there was none. The room was suffocating, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of burnt flesh.
He paced in front of me, his boots crunching against the broken glass on the floor. The sound echoed, sharp and grating, as if mocking my every shallow breath.
“You’re almost there,” he said, his tone teasing. “I can see it in your eyes, Dove. That lovely mix of fear and hopelessness. It’s intoxicating.”
