They clawed their way back up no matter how desperately you tried to keep them hidden.
And I had learned something very young:
Men like Bruno weren’t new. They just wore different masks.
Without warning, Bruno gripped my jaw and forced my mouth open painfully wide. My breathing remained controlled despite the panic clawing through me, my cuffed hands twitching helplessly as cold metal slipped into my mouth.
The flat edge of surgical scissors pressed firmly beneath my tongue, forcing it upward, stretching the sensitive flesh in a way that sent a slow, electric pulse of pain through my jaw.
“How about this,” he murmured, making certain I could feel the cold edge of the scissors against my tongue, his breathing dangerously close. “Perhaps it is time someone taught you the cost of defiance. You value that sharp little mouth of yours so much... imagine life without it.”
His grip tightened slightly.
“You are already blind. If I removed that stubborn tongue of yours—silenced that sharp little voice permanently—what, exactly, would remain of you?”
“This is your final opportunity. Beg.”
I stilled instantly, not flinching, not breathing too hard, not making a sound, because the slightest movement would be enough for the blade to cut.
A warm, metallic taste flooded the back of my throat—not blood, not yet—but the anticipation of it, the way fear could trick your body into preparing for pain before it even arrived.
My pulse thundered in my ears.
But my body remained... still.
Let him do it.
The thought came cold and steady
Let him spill my blood.
Let him rob me of speech. Let him destroy whatever he pleased.
I would not hand him the humiliation of surrender.
Besides, pain had walked beside me for far too long to frighten me now.
“You stubborn little bitch.”
Bruno’s voice snapped sharply through the silence, raw frustration finally bleeding through the control he had been desperately trying to maintain.
“Why are you not begging?” he demanded, his grip tightening painfully against my jaw. “Why are you still looking so calm?”
The scissors pressed harder.
A sharp sting flared beneath my tongue.
“Are you not scared you’ll lose it?” he hissed. “Your tongue? Your pretty little voice?”
I couldn’t answer.
Not even if I wanted to.
The angle of his grip, the pressure of the metal—it locked my mouth in place, turned my silence into something forced.
But to him—
It looked like defiance.
