Against the far wall: a table. On the table, arranged with the precision of surgical instruments: crops, floggers, restraints, plugs of varying sizes, a leather gag. Laid out like a catalog. Like a menu.
Thanks Tasha for the information, but what the actual fuck?
One wall is different from the others. Darker. Smoother. Glass—or something like it. Floor to ceiling, polished to a black mirror shine. I can see myself in it. A pale, barefoot figurein metal cuffs, lip swollen, standing in a room full of things designed to hurt him.
My legs stop working.
The guard behind me shoves me forward. I stumble—ribs aching as I suck in a sharp breath—and stand in the center of the room staring at the cross and the table and the dark mirror, and the terror is so complete it's almost peaceful.
Like drowning. Like the moment you stop fighting the water.
The moment I’d stop fighting Linda.
"Strip."
I turn. The guard who spoke is the one from behind—broader than the other, a face like a closed fist. The other is holding a pair of medical shears.
"No."
The word comes out before I can weigh it. Reflexive, animal, the last shred of something that refuses to be erased without protest. No. The only word I have left.
The broader guard doesn't hesitate. Doesn't argue. He crosses the room in two strides, grabs the chain between my cuffs, and wrenches my arms above my head so fast my shoulders scream. I'm yanked off balance—feet scrambling, weight hanging from the cuffs, metal biting into already-raw wrists. He pins the chain against the wall with one hand. I'm dangling, toes barely touching the floor, and he's holding me there like it costs him nothing. Like I weigh nothing.
I thrash. Can't help it—my body rejects what's happening before my brain can calculate the odds. I twist against his grip, kick out, try to wrench my arms free. My heel connects with something—his shin, maybe—and for one stupid, hopeful second I think—
He drives his fist into my stomach.
The air leaves my body in a single, violent rush. My vision goes white. My legs give out and I'm hanging by my wrists, mouth open, trying to breathe and getting nothing. The pain radiates outward from my center like a shockwave—ribs, spine, lungs that have forgotten how to expand. I'm gagging on nothing, spit dripping from my lip, and the guard holds me there and waits. Patient. Bored. Like he's waiting for a microwave to finish.
When I can breathe again—shallow, hitching, each inhale a knife—the other guard steps in with the shears.
He cuts my shirt from collar to hem. One clean motion. The fabric parts and once he cuts through the arms, it falls. My pants next—waistband to ankle, both legs. I flinch at the cold blade against my skin but I don't fight. Can't fight. My stomach is a ball of fire and my lungs still aren't working right and every muscle in my body has received the message:you are outmatched. Completely. Totally. Stop.
Underwear. One cut. Gone.
The broader guard lets the chain drop. I crumple—knees hitting the polished concrete, cuffed hands catching myself before my face does. Naked. On the floor. The cold seeps into my knees, my palms. I'm shaking so hard my teeth are clicking together. My breath comes in short, wet gasps that sound like an animal caught in something.
A boot nudges my ribs. Not a kick. A nudge. The way you'd roll over roadkill to get a better look.
"Get up."
I can't. My arms are trembling too hard to push myself upright. My stomach is still clenched around the punch, my lungs still grabbing at air in shallow little sips. I try to push up and my elbows buckle.
The broader guard grabs the back of my neck and hauls me to my feet. My legs barely hold. He turns me—one handon my shoulder, spinning me—so I'm facing the mirror. Facing myself. Pale. Shaking. Naked. Cuffed. Eyes wide and wet and animal-terrified. The bruise starting on my ribs. My stomach muscles twitching from the hit.
This is what they see. This is what I am in this room. Not a person. Not Max. A body that said no and got hit until it stopped saying anything at all.
Breathe. In through the nose. Hold. Out through the mouth. Breathe with me, match my rhythm—
Atlas's voice. The kitchen. His hands on my face. His eyes steady and certain and there. But Atlas isn't here. Atlas said no. Atlas is somewhere in a city that might as well be another planet, and I'm here, and the breathing exercise is just noise. Just moving air through lungs that don't want to cooperate.
They uncuff me to strap me to the cross. For three seconds my hands are free. I don't fight. The punch taught me what fighting costs in this room, and my stomach is still on fire, and I can barely stand, let alone swing. I let them move my arms into position because the part of me that wanted to resist is curled on the floor, wheezing.
They press me face-first against the wood. My cheek hits the smooth surface, my chest flush against the center beam. Wrists above my head—the leather cuffs padded but inescapable, tightened until I can feel my pulse beating against them. Ankles apart—wide, spread. My back and ass exposed. Every part of me open to the room, to the amber light, to whoever wants to see.
I'm shaking. Full-body tremors that rattle the restraints against the wood. I can't see behind me. Can't see the table or the implements or whoever enters the room next. Can only stare at the grain of the wood inches from my face and feel the air on my bare skin and listen. My breath comes in short, hitching gasps that aren't enough, aren't nearly enough.
One. Two. Three—
