Page 73 of Shattered In Darkness

He thrusts, harder, faster, until I’m gasping, fighting for breath. Shame and sick heat coil together in my gut, winding tighter with every brutal motion.

Leaning closer again, his breath is hot on my neck. “You’re mine now, Lola. There’s no Marcus, no pretty-boy boyfriend, no world outside this room. Just you and me, and the things I’m going to do to you.” He pulls his fingers out, sticky and glistening. He wipes them on my thigh, marking me. “Get on your hands and knees.”

I hesitate, and he grabs my hair, yanking me into position. My arms shake, my knees burn on the cold floor. He opens his belt and unzips his pants. I don’t look back. I don’t want to see what he’s about to do. But I feel it. The thick head of his cock pressing against my entrance. He teases me, slides up and down my cunt.

“You want to say no?” he asks. “Say it.”

He waits, as if some part of him needs consent. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Not because I’m too scared to speak, but because some dark part of me wants it. But, I’m too ashamed to admit that. Something about this man sets me aflame. His hands, his cock, his power, his demeanor that feels brutal but hot in a filthy, dominant way.

And I think he senses that, because he shoves in. He holds my hips, pins me in place, thrusting deep, grinding bone against bone. Each thrust is violent, erratic, out of control but never letting go. He pounds into me, hips slapping flesh, breath ragged.

I moan, gasping, face smashed into the floor. He grabs my neck and squeezes, not tight enough to choke me out, just enough to remind me he could.

“You feel that?” he hisses. “That’s what real power feels like. You belong to me.”

He slaps my ass, the sting echoing up my spine. He fucks me harder, faster, until the pain blurs with something twisted, something hot and shameful. He pulls out, flips me onto my back. My body flops, it’s limp and ruined. He kneels between my legs, mask staring down at me.

He enters me again, rough, relentless, driving me into the concrete. His hand finds my throat and squeezes, leaning down, the mask inches from my face. “Look at me.”

I force my eyes open. The void in the mask swallows me whole. His free hand grabs my breast.

Why does his touch remind me of Brody?

He fucks me until I break. Until my body shudders beneath him, torn between agony and sick pleasure. I close my eyes and use him as a substitute for Brody. When he comes, he doesn’t slow. He buries himself deep, groaning, shuddering, spilling inside me. I feel it sliding out between my thighs. He pulls out, stands, and tucks himself away. He looks down at me, and laughs. “Clean yourself up.”

He tosses my torn shirt at me, then turns, boots stomping up the stairs. The door slams. The lock clicks. I lie there, shaking, cum and shame pooling beneath me. My body aches, almost as excruciating as the grief within me.

I am a broken doll, fragments scattered, never to be whole again.

I curl in on myself, clutching the shredded fabric to my chest, and weep. Quiet. Helpless. Alone.

The skull mask is gone, but his presence lingers.

I know, now, that there is no rescue coming. No end to this room. Only hunger. Only hate. Only the sound of my own desperate breathing, echoing in the silence—proof that I haven’t died yet, no matter how much I want to.

Please momma, save me.

I weep in the silence, feeling like I’m stuck in a bad dream. It’s cold, and I just want to crawl in my momma’s bed.

I’m scared of the dark.

22

LOLA

He has rules. No running. No fighting. No asking questions. I am simply a hole, a thing to be ruined. He wants to break me. And I let him. I am not allowed upstairs yet. He says I need to be a good girl, and if I am, then I will get rewarded.

Marcus says the same thing, but it’s different with this man. I can sense the emptiness in Marcus, there is nothing human inside of him, and that is what I truly fear. This man? He is human, I can see that. Just angry and erratic.

The basement is my world now. The only warmth comes from my own breath, fogging in the morning light that creeps through the sliver of the window, and even that feels stolen. The cement floor bites into my knees, my shins, my hips. I keep moving. If I stop, I might freeze solid, turn to a corpse before he’s done using me.

He has a new rule today: No food until I ask for it. And I have to ask the right way.

My stomach is twisted, knotting itself around hunger, but I refuse to beg. Until he comes. The lock clatters. Every time I hear that sound, something in me shrivels. My mind flickers through all the punishments I know, all the ones I don’t.

His boots hit the stairs. He’s carrying something. The clatter of plastic. I already know what it is before I see it.

A dog bowl. Stainless steel. He sets it on the floor and nudges it with his boot until it rings off the concrete. He crouches, so the skull mask fills my vision, all empty eyes.