Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 118042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 590(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 590(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
* * * * *
“Stand on the stage, Henri.”
Hauling myself to my feet, I stepped onto the podium and waited for a guard to strap me to the pole like usual.
Only…no one came.
Crates appeared, carried in by long-suffering staff. Crates I’d seen before.
I stiffened as Victor smirked. “Friends…please, help yourselves.” Marching to the nearest crate, he pulled out a familiar paintball gun. Cocking it, he faced me squarely and grinned. “You’re not bound. You can run if you want.”
I flinched and looked around the ballroom. My gaze landed on Ben and Stewart. They’d flown back in this weekend and hadn’t touched their dinner. Ben gave me a horrified look, and Stewart looked green.
At least they had the decency to care about my downfall.
At least they hadn’t been caught up in it.
“Not running?” Victor pouted. “Come now, Henri. Shooting you point blank isn’t very sporting.”
I sighed heavily as every Master armed themselves and crowded the podium. Muzzles of their guns pointed at my very naked, very vulnerable body.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Peter hunching in his chains and Ily straining to get to me.
I had to give it to Victor.
He knew people. And he knew weakness.
Ily didn’t step out of line for fear that her actions would hurt Peter, and I didn’t step out of line because I would never hurt her again. We condemned each other to hell through love.
Balling my hands, I stood straight and glowered at Victor.
“One last chance.” Victor cocked his head with a smirk. “Run and Ilyana can wear these bruises.” He sniffed as he took in the state of me. “After all, you’re already wearing quite a few.”
I gritted my teeth and didn’t reply.
“Come on, Vic. Enough dilly-dallying. Can I shoot?” a Master in the shadows asked.
Victor took his time, but finally, he nodded as if he’d agreed to a quiet luncheon. “By all means.” Throwing me a look, he added, “Seeing as you didn’t run, Henri. I suggest you get very good at staying still. If you so much as twitch, I’ll put Ilyana in your place. If you scream, I’ll make her scream twice as loudly. Ready?”
I barely had time to brace before the Masters fired—
* * * * *
I lost count how many colours layered me that night.
How much pain ricocheted through my abused frame.
How Roland shot me with blue, and Ian with green, and the ballroom of men pummelled me with a vicious, violent rainbow.
Somehow, I didn’t move.
I could’ve run.
I wanted to goddamn run.
But if I moved a fucking step, Ily would replace me.
I’d have to watch her flawless skin transform with a million new bruises.
And I couldn’t do it.
And so, I stayed.
And I hurt.
Victor was the last to shoot me.
He stepped onto the stage, slipping in paint splashes, his black shoes treading garish colour wherever he went.
With a sick chuckle, he shot me right in the cock with a neon pink bullet.
I woke up in the beige and black room.
Dr Belford at my bedside and something cool and comforting between my throbbing legs. “He’s lost his damn mind,” she whispered, shooting me full of anti-inflammatories and another dose of her wonderful cocktail of peace and energy. “I’ve always suspected he was mentally unstable, but what he’s doing to you—” She cut herself off. Packed up her supplies. And left.
I faded.
I escaped into dreams where Ily was safe, and I was finally allowed to let death come for me.
It would be so easy to die.
So simple to enrage Victor enough to kill me.
But…Ily.
Peter.
Promises and hopes and—
So I stayed.
The next night, as I stood bare in front of the Masters—my entire body riddled in round blackened bruises—Victor said I looked a little peckish.
The Masters agreed and threw food at me. An avalanche of asparagus spears, potatoes, and succulent prawns. Some struck me in the face. Some bounced off my shoulders. Melted butter rolled down my chest in sticky rivers.
It was demeaning. Demoralising.
I burned with fucking fury to fight back.
But through it all, I felt her eyes on me.
Her love for me.
And I wanted to fucking cry.
I went cold. Empty.
I accepted the ridicule and torment.
I cleaned up the mess at Victor’s command.
I bent over his chair at the end of the evening and let him flog me sixteen times just because.
* * * * *
“Eat, my sweetling.”
I blinked and looked at the perfectly seared piece of steak in Victor’s fingers. Juicy and rare, my mouth watered for such a delicious morsel.
Without a word, I leaned forward on my knees and accepted the gift.
My eyes snapped closed with ecstasy as the flavours exploded on my tongue.
Pleasure didn’t come often anymore, but when it did, I gave myself over to it completely. I didn’t judge myself. I stopped suffering shame for clinging to tiny moments that kept me sane.
I no longer burned with humiliation that Victor kept me naked.