Blood sheets down her forehead in a fresh wave, flooding her eyes, her mouth, her tits. She’s a fucking mess—painted, carved, bleeding, sobbing.
I lean in until our foreheads almost touch, my voice a low, dark whisper against her bloody, painted skin.
“You look so much better like this.”
She lifts her head. Blood runs freely down her face, through the ruined paint, along the carved letters, and she lifts her head, looks at me with watery eyes.
"You'll never be free of me." Broken. Wet. But certain. "Whatever you do in this room, you'll carry it. Every time she looks at you, she'll see this. She'll see what you're capable of. And one day—" A breath that costs her. "One day she'll be afraid of you the way everyone else is."
"She already knows what I'm capable of," I say. "She wants me to do this." I lean in close, lips against the marred ear I can still taste on my tongue. “She told me to make you scream.”
Something goes out in Valeria's eyes. Not all at once. Like a light finding the end of its power source.
I walk to the far corner of the room. There, leaning against the wall, is the full-length mirror I had brought in earlier. I drag it across the concrete floor, the sound loud and grating, until I position it directly in front of her, close enough that she has no choice but to see every inch of herself.
I tilt it slightly so the light hits her ruined face perfectly. Then I step behind her, one hand resting on the back of the chair, and force her head up by the hair again.
“Look.”
She tries to close her eyes, but I yank harder, fingers twisting in her bloody, painted hair until she has no choice.
Her own reflection stares back at her. The once-flawless Valeria Capello is gone. What’s left is a horror. Black and white and bloody, PRETTY carved across her forehead.
The letters gape open, raw edges and curled back flesh. She looks exactly like the monster she made me. A broken, painted, bleeding thing.
A sob rips out of her—ugly, defeated. She tries to turn her head away, but I hold her firmly, forcing her to keep looking.
“See what you are now,” I murmur against her ear. “This is what you turned me into. Every day. Every night. And now you get to wear it.”
Her breathing turns into panicked, hiccupping gasps. The blood keeps dripping. The paint keeps running. And in the mirror, she is forced to watch every single second of her own unraveling.
Perfect.
I grip her left shoulder firmly, fingers digging into the joint. My other hand brings the karambit up. I don’t speak. I don’t need to.
I make the first shallow cut—precise, controlled—right along the seam of the shoulder joint. The blade parts skin and bites into the tendon beneath with a wet, slicing sound. Blood wells up fast, hot and dark, spilling down her arm.
Valeria screams. The sound is raw, broken, beautiful. Something I can listen to for eternity.
I keep the pressure steady, twisting the blade just enough to tear more of the tendon without severing it completely. The pain will be constant. Every tiny shift of herarm, every breath, every twitch will pull on the damaged tissue like fire.
Fresh blood pools at the corner of her mouth. She’s bitten her tongue hard enough to draw blood, trying to choke back the screams. It drips down her chin in a thin red line, mixing with the paint and the blood already running from her forehead.
I move to the other shoulder and do the same. Then her elbows. Then her wrists. Each cut is deliberate. Shallow enough that she won’t bleed out quickly, deep enough that the pain is excruciating and relentless.
She’s sobbing now, body shaking violently against the chains, but I don’t stop. I move lower—shallow cuts along the tops of her thighs, inner knees, the soft skin just above her ankles. Every major joint. Every place that will make existing agony.
By the time I finish, she’s a trembling, bleeding mess. Crying, cursing, gagging from the pain. The painted mask on her face is streaked with tears and blood. Her tits rise and fall with panicked, shallow breaths. Every small movement pulls on the cuts and draws fresh whimpers from her throat.
It’s a high I’ve never experienced before. Watching her suffer. Watching her break.
I wipe the karambit clean on her torn dress and step back, admiring my work. Then turn toward the door.
“Let her in.”
28
SOPHIA
