Page 70 of Shattered In Darkness

My fingers fumble with my pants. I’m still wearing the same pajama bottoms from when they took me. I force them down, panties too. I step out, naked and shivering, skin prickling in the cold air and from his gaze. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t touch. Just watches me. Hungry, silent, claiming every inch of me with his eyes behind the mask.

“Turn around,” he orders. I do. I feel his stare on my ass, my thighs, the bruises blooming on my hips from Marcus. Shame crackles in my blood. “Good girl,” he says. “You know how to listen, don’t you?”

I clench my fists, furious at myself for obeying, for needing his approval. I hate how my nipples harden under his stare, how my legs tremble not just from fear. He moves closer. His gloved hand skims down my spine, stopping at the small of my back. He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t grope, just claims with one slow, possessive touch.

“You obey me, and I’ll take care of you,” he whispers. “Fight me, and I’ll break you.” He stands so close I feel his breath on my neck. The skull mask grazes my skin. His other hand fists in my hair, tilts my head back until my throat is bared. “You understand your place yet?” he murmurs, voice shivers down my spine.

I grit my teeth and nod, cheeks burning. His gloved hand moved from my back to my front where his finger grazes my clit. One touch and I melt. He rubs that spot again and groans in my ear. This is so wrong. I should not be getting aroused while my kidnapper touches me. But, here I am. Getting fucking wet for him.

But, to my disappointment, he lets me go. “Put your clothes back on. But remember, every inch of you belongs to me. Don’t forget it.”

He waits, watching as I dress. I can barely look at him. My limbs shake as I pull my panties up, then pants, then shirt.

When I finish, he moves to the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “I like you better this way. Helpless. Honest. Don’t make me remind you again.”

He leaves, the lock clattering shut, and I sink to the floor. Burning with rage, shame, and a twisted ache that won’t go away.

20

LOLA

The cabin basement feels as if there is a cold wind blowing, as if snow is piled atop my body. I have not stopped shivering since the mysterious man took me here. My fingers are numb, but that doesn’t stop them from trembling. I hate that I tremble.

But I am just a shivering creature, waiting for the butcher.

The space around me is hollowed out, stripped bare. Just crumbling concrete, wood beams, and that window: one block of pale, bruised daylight that never reaches my bones. Above me, floorboards creak, and every sound echoes. My legs are knotted up beneath the scratchy blanket he left me, but the cold threads through it, a promise. No matter how many times I wrap myself tighter, there’s no escaping the frost in my marrow.

He hasn’t come back since he brought me down here and left me with the echo of his masked laughter. The skull face is etched into my memory, more myth than flesh.

I don’t know how long I’ve waited. Time stretches weird here. Maybe it’s been an hour. Maybe whole nights have passed and I just haven’t noticed. I try to sing to myself, but it’s useless. The cold eats every noise. My voice disappears before it even leaves my mouth.

I run my hands over my arms, trying to summon heat, comfort, anything. The skin there is patchy—old bruises from Marcus, fresh ones from the van, the men who held me down and taped my mouth shut. I trace the shape of the pain, let it ground me. I remind myself: you survived him, you can survive this.

Somewhere above, a door slams. My whole body goes rigid, my heart is a drumbeat. The door at the top of the stairs unlocks. He wants me to hear it. He wants me to wait for the threat.

The skull mask appears in the doorway, white and grinning, hungry with darkness behind the eye holes. He fills the entry. Tall, broad, the kind of body that blocks out all the light and makes you feel like prey. He doesn’t speak, not yet. He just watches me, head tilted, like a collector appraising a rare piece of meat.

My pulse gallops as I force my chin up. “What do you want?” My voice cracks, but I make it loud. “You think you’re some big man, hiding behind that mask?”

Silence.

The mask tilts further, and I can sense how amused he is, even without seeing his face. He moves down the stairs, step by step, heavy boots echoing off the concrete in a slow, measured rhythm.

He stops at the bottom, just out of reach. “You don’t get to ask questions,” he says. The voice is warped, lower than I expect, hoarse with something that sounds like contempt. He leans in, the mask inches from my face. “And I’m the one who owns you now.”

I ball my fists. I want to scratch at him, bite, anything. “You don’t own me. I’m not afraid of you. You’re just another pathetic man playing dress-up⁠—”

He lunges. Cold gloved fingers close around my throat, sudden and hard, pinning me back against the wall. The pain flashes hot, then white, all the blood in my head screaming. My feet kick out, useless against his bulk.

“You think you can talk to me like that?” His voice is a ragged snarl in my ear. “You think you’re still in control here?” His grip tightens until my vision pulses with stars. I choke, clawing at his wrist. I can’t breathe, and panic flares. He leans in, skull mask so close I can feel the plastic scraping my cheek. “You’re not in control. You’re not safe. You’re not even a person in this room, Lola. You’re a thing. My thing.”

He lets go. I collapse onto my knees, gasping, my chest burning from my lungs howling for air. He circles me. I feel his eyes on every inch of me, measuring, stripping me naked. He crouches in front of me, gloved hand in my hair. His fingers knot tight at the roots and he jerks my head back, exposing my throat, making the bruises from Marcus stretch and ache.

“You’re going to learn what happens when you fight me,” he murmurs, voice softer now, almost gentle. “You want to act tough? You want to act like you’re still untouchable?”

I twist in his grip. “Fuck you. I’m not scared of you, you sick fuck. You want to be Marcus so bad? Is this how you get your dick hard, by hurting someone who can’t fight back?”

He snarls, hand tightening in my hair, yanking my head until my neck screams. His other hand rips the blanket off me, baring the thin t-shirt and panties I wore to sleep. I lurch, try to push away, but he’s faster, meaner, hands everywhere, pinning me by the crown of my skull.