Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
What is surprising, what angered me more than Pirro just being his same sadistic self, is the woman who sucked me off on command then stuck around and watched Pirro slice me to pieces. I didn’t hear sobs or her pleading for him to stop. Her silence was so loud it was all that I could focus on for a large part of it.
Maybe it’s my own bias, but it’s not uncommon for people to expect women to be protectors, to not be afraid to step forward and tell someone to stop hurting others. She didn’t even whisper her distaste for what Pirro was doing.
I can honestly say I hate her as much as I hate Pirro, possibly more because of her gender. I mentally add her to my list of people to tear apart if I’m ever able to escape. I barter with myself that I’ll do it when given any chance because freedom at this point is hopeless. If I can escape my shackles for the briefest of seconds, I’ll make her wish she’d spoken up against Pirro.
Even when my blindfold shifted enough for me to see down my face at her as she cleaned the wounds she never attempted to stop, I wanted to hurt her back. I don’t care if she looked utterly torn apart at what had been done to me. The little squeeze to my calf doesn’t mean a fucking thing. It’s like attempting to bail out the Titanic with a fucking shot glass; pointless.
If it weren’t for the full body exhaustion, I would’ve fought against her as much as I managed against Pirro, but at some point I realized I needed to use my head.
I don’t want to die at his hands, if anything just to spite him, and her supplies looked clean. She wasn’t overly hurtful in the way she tended to my injuries, but I don’t know if her care and attention will even help. I know the chills I had were dangerous. I know that it was bad news when I could no longer feel him cutting into me. I needed her help. I know it only means that she’s helping Pirro keep me alive so he can hurt me more, but I refuse to give in to that fucking bastard.
I growled and cussed both of them, but nothing translated with the gag in my mouth.
I don’t know how long I hang here. It already seems like days since I was taken from outside the bar, when in reality, it has probably only been a few hours.
The door at my back shifts, and I know just from the evil aura surrounding whoever entered that this isn’t going to be very fun for me. At least the woman didn’t have this wave of hatred flowing off her. If anything, she was indifferent with the task she’d been given, as if sewing up a guy she just witnessed getting sliced was an everyday occurrence.
I blink into the too-bright light in the room when the blindfold is ripped from my face, growling when it pulls several hairs from the back of my head that got trapped in the knot.
I glare at Pirro as he stands before me, threatening him with a look because it’s all I’m capable of right now.
He circles me, and terror, a feeling I fucking hate more than anything, runs down my spine. He’d be the type of coward to kill me without facing me. I hate the fear of knowing that and not knowing if that’s what he’s planning right now.
The air grows thicker, heavier, and I hear several more people enter the room. I chance a glance down my body, an attempt to assess the damage despite not being able to do anything about the wounds.
The stitches look better than I’d guess was possible in a torture chamber. Each wound is covered in a slick salve, and I know the barrier is a blessing against the dirt and grime that is layered in this room. There are no bandages despite the care she took to tend to every cut.
I cry out in pain, hating the cowardice in my muffled pleas, when four strong hands grab me. They aren’t cautious of my wounds, but expecting psychopaths to have concern for someone else is pointless. They struggle to lift my weight enough to relieve the chains enough to pull them free. Or maybe they’re as big of a sadist as Pirro is, and taking their time is somehow satisfying that dark, demented place inside of them.
Eventually, the chains are released, each link sliding down my body and grabbing at the stitches marring my skin. I swear one wound is reopened, but it looks mostly intact when I glance down at it.
I feel like I’ve been dragged behind a bus after getting run over by it several times. Not once in my life have I felt what I do now. If it weren’t for my pride, I would beg for death. For once, I’m grateful for the gag in my mouth because I don’t know that I’d be able to stop myself if I knew they could fully understand what I’m saying.