The blade was black-handled.
Wicked.
Sharp enough to catch the light and reflect it in a cold, unforgiving line.
He brought it to the first restraint.
Carefully.
Almost... gently.
The blade pressed into the leather strap at my ankle, slicing through it with controlled precision.
One by one.
Ankles. Thighs. Chest. Wrist.
Each cut was deliberate.
As if he were afraid that one wrong movement—one careless slip—would hurt me further.
The final strap fell away with a soft thud.
For a moment—I didn’t move.
My body didn’t obey me.
My limbs felt foreign.
Heavy. Unresponsive.
Every inch of me screamed in pain.
My knees throbbed.
My ribs ached with every shallow breath.
My face burned, swollen and crusted with dried blood.
My shoulders felt raw from the struggle.
Everything hurt.
Everything.
Slowly—painfully—I pushed myself upright.
The sheet beneath me was soaked in multiple places, dark red spreading unevenly across the fabric.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry and tight.
My hands trembled as I pulled the torn edges of my boyshorts together, trying to cover the damage as best I could.
My fingers shook as I held the fabric in place, forcing myself to curl my legs beneath me.
To reclaim even a fraction of control.
Vincenzo sat down on the edge of the table.
