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Chapter Thirteen
Alena
They don’t speak, and their faces are stern.
This is a reminder, a warning to behave. I don’t know if they heard us or if it’s because I pissed off that cow chick, but they are here to dole out pain and suffering. To try to break me again. I tilt my head back with a smile as one steps forward, cracking his knuckles. The other, a huge Russian covered in tats, turns and watches the door. He stands with his arms crossed, leaving the tall, blond-haired skinny man to dispense the punishment.
He wastes no time getting started, not letting me taunt or tease, knowing my smart mouth is the only weapon I have. He doesn’t even look directly at me, reminding me I’m nothing to them but a chore, a job.
He uses his hands first. I regulate my breathing and don’t tense as he methodically punches my stomach, my sides, and my face before he breaks two of my toes and then resets them. By the time he pulls out the pliers, I know this is going to be bad.
He’s a professional.
When he removes the third fingernail, I scream. It erupts out of me like a battle cry. The agony-ridden sound makes Boogeyman growl like an animal. I cut the rest off, wanting to be strong. I can’t let him think I’m weak. My head hurts from the pain, but I laugh. “Don’t worry, Boogeyman, we are just having some foreplay. Ain’t that right, blondie?” I lift my head, and he finally meets my eyes. His are cold, ice-cold, and dead inside. There’s nothing there. He doesn’t speak or blink as he turns and places the pliers on the bag he rolled out before picking up a knife.
I suck in a breath and lick my chapped, torn lips.
“Do you prefer knives or guns, Boogeyman?” I ask nervously as blondie moves towards me.
“My hands,” is his short, clipped reply, and my fucked-up body ignites with lust. My clit throbs with my heartbeat, which doesn’t go away, even when blondie stops before me and presses the knife to my stomach. I shouldn’t be turned on, I shouldn’t want the assassin. Is my body really that fucked up—
Fuck!
The agony is sudden and sharp as he digs the long blade into the tender flesh of the only unmarred patch of skin on my body, just above my belly button. His eyes roll up to me as he drags the knife down my flesh, cutting it open. I choke back bile as he licks his lips. My breathing stutters, and my heart hammers, making the blood flow faster. He methodically wipes it away, like one would with tattoo ink, but then he lifts his bloodstained hand, and his eyes flare with something other than ice.
Desire.
I do vomit this time, all over his legs and boots. He gets mad and backhands me. A moment later, I feel the blade pressing against my skin again. Nothing is going to stop him. I close my eyes and hang there as he slices. I can’t look, all I can do is breathe through the agony and try not to pass out. It feels like he’s cutting me to pieces. Short, sharp strokes carve across my stomach, and then it stops as suddenly as it began. I open my eyes, unable to look down in fear of what he’s done, even as he presses the bloody knife to his lips before dropping it.
His eyes are on his handiwork, not me, like I’m a piece of cattle. He frees his cock from his trousers and starts stroking it. My nose scrunches in disgust as I watch him caress it and the eight piercings running down its length. He tugs it in hard, sudden bursts. His chest heaves, and within a minute, he finds his release, his mouth opening on a silent moan, and that’s when I see the old, brown stump of where his tongue used to be.
It’s been burnt or cut out.
His cum splashes across my hip and leg as he wordlessly shivers before tucking his cock away. With one last look at his handiwork, he grabs his bag, rolls it up, and departs with his friend. They leave me hanging here, bleeding, as waves of burning agony wash through me. The pain becomes stronger, increasing with each breath, and I slump as tears fill my eyes.
It hurts so much that I bite my tongue, feeling blood well as I try to fight it, but it only seems to get worse as all my injuries overwhelm me. The shock is wearing off, making way for pain.
I cough before spitting some blood on the floor, then I lift my head and look through the hole. My eyes are too blurry to see, so I force my voice through my sore throat. “Did you come too?” I rasp.
He doesn’t respond, and my head drops from exhaustion, even as I smile a little through the blood in my mouth.
“I bet you did. You’re just as fucked up as I am. I bet you liked my screams—” The words cut off as my throat stops working.
“Don’t die,” is all he says, and I pass out.
When I wake up, I’m shivering, cold, and still exhausted. My head pounds and my body aches, but at least I didn’t die like he ordered. I hang here, listening, but his breathing is even. Is he asleep? I doubt it. I can almost feel his eyes staring through the small hole.
Is he disgusted?
Do I care?
I shiver harder when I feel cum slowly dripping down my thigh. I must not have passed out for too long. It slithers down my leg and then drops to the floor, and for some reason, my stomach heaves. I guess you never get used to it. The horrors surge in my head, of the first time, of every time. My screams and struggles flow through my mind.
I begin to fight against my restraints, twisting my hands, trying to force my eyes open to forget, to not think about it. Otherwise, I might break. But for the first time, the pain of the cuffs cutting into my skin doesn’t push it back.
I need something more, I need an anchor, so I do the only thing I can…
I reach for him.
