Then he reached for his holstered blade.
Metal caught the low light as he drew it free, his head tilting slightly as he looked down at Luca’s back.
His eyes tracked across the length of Luca’s spine, pausing, adjusting, as if he were recalling something from memory.
And then he started.
The blade pressed into Luca’s skin just below the shoulder, the pressure building in a controlled, deliberate line before it broke through skin and dragged downward.
Not randomly.
His movements were intentional.
Luca’s body jerked beneath him, a strangled sound forcing its way past his clenched jaw, but Silas didn’t react. He didn’t speed up. Didn’t falter.
He simply continued.
Another line. Slightly offset. Parallel.
My breath caught.
I knewthatpattern.
My gaze traced the movement of Silas' hand, the angle of the blade, the spacing between each cut, and a slow, creeping realization settled deep in my chest.
He wasn’t just punishing or hurting him.
He was recreating something specific.
The same paths. The same placement. The same deliberate carving that Luca had once etched intomyback.
Line for line.
Scar for scar.
Revenge for what he had done to me.
Luca broke quickly after that. His cheeks puffed up, as if he was trying to keep his screams inside, but when Silas began carving deeper, his control shattered as the pain overtook him. Luca's voice cracked into desperate, ugly pleas, and then unintelligible screams.
At first, I watched and listened to him. The man who had once tormented, tortured, frightened, and held power over me, now reduced to something frantic and weak. There was a grim satisfaction in it.
But Luca didn’t hold my attention long.
Silas did.
I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
His movements were steady and careful, his grip precise as he guided the blade through each slice with controlledpressure. There was no hesitation in him, no uncertainty. He knew exactly what he was doing, exactly where each cut needed to start and end. It wasn’t reckless violence, but rather methodical and planned.
His breathing stayed even, his expression locked in place, his focus unbroken as he worked. There was something in his eyes, something darker than anger, which didn’t spike or flare but instead burned low and steady.
And as I watched him, I realized…
This was something he enjoyed, something heneeded.
Whether it was the precision, the control, or the violence itself, for Silas…
Torture was therapeutic.
