Page 74

C hrist, this whole debacle is making my knuckles go white from gripping so bloody tight. The dank air claws at my lungs in rasping wheezes as I strain against my restraints, muscles cording beneath sweat-slicked skin. No windows in this subterranean den, just flickering torchlight casting grotesque shadows writhing across the rough-hewn walls—like some twisted reimagining of Plato’s cave, forced to gaze upon silhouettes of an even uglier reality.

Another brutal blow crunches into the side of my face, splitting my cheek open in a white-hot blaze. I swallow the coppery deluge flooding my mouth, jaw clenched to blunt the anguished groan desperate to escape. Hansley’s perfectly sculpted brow arches in what I can only assume is smug satisfaction, plush lips pressing into a thin line as she watches the Enforcer’s knuckles connect with my body again and again.

Agony lances through my torso with each calculated strike, ribs creaking in protest. I ride the crests of pain, spiraling inward and anchoring myself through sheer force of will. Years of enduring brutality have honed this singular skill—refusing to allow even a flicker of anguish to mar my expression. To show weakness before that sadistic crone would be a fate worse than whatever lashings she deems fit to dish out.

My shredded focus tunnels through the stinging blur obstructing my vision, blinking furiously to clear away the viscous tide of blood trickling down from my split brow. Hansley watches the proceedings with a detached sort of bemusement, as if viewing some mildly diverting parlor trick rather than my being systematically pummeled within an inch of consciousness.

“Enough,” she finally calls out, waving one elegantly manicured hand in our general direction.

The sudden cessation of blows has my breath rattling in my chest as I try centering myself again, bracing for whatever fresh torment her twisted imagination has undoubtedly concocted for this round of so-called punishment.

Those predatory strides echo throughout the cramped space as Hansley crosses to my position, perfectly coiffed curls swaying in her wake. Slender fingers abruptly grip my jaw with bruising force, nails digging crescents into the hinge until I’m forced to part my lips on a guttural groan.

“I hate watching my best Initiates fall so damn low,” she murmurs, that perpetual hint of condescension practically dripping from every enunciated syllable.

Summoning what little saliva remains in my bone-dry mouth, I gather enough to spit a taunting glob squarely at her cheek. “Gonna have to try harder than that if you wanna break me, you withered old cunt.”

Her responding chuckle is utterly devoid of humor, nails finally releasing my face with a harsh shove before she turns away to wipe the offending bodily fluid off her skin. Heels click on the concrete as she saunters to the table at the far wall, a cursory glance sweeping over the array of instruments laid out on the nearby table. My blood instantly runs cold, every muscle rigid in dread.

The cat o’ nine emerges from the collection, braided strands of leather and metal wire glinting in the scant illumination as she grips the handle, casually offering it toward the silent Enforcer. Of-fucking-course she’s not done yet.

The clammy slide of perspiration coats my soles as the Enforcer silently disappears from view, circling behind me with that dreaded lash in hand. How long has it been since I’ve felt that particular bite? Near on a decade? No… no, there was that one time. Gods, must’ve been sixteen, my cocky arse thinking I could sneak off for a quick shag behind the old stables like some untried whelp. That particular penance left scars I can still feel tightening across my back on restless nights, a permanent reminder of how little control we truly possess over our fates here.

The telltale whisper of coiled sinew uncurling sends shivers racing along my nape before the first blistering stripe lays into me—a white-hot lance of agony searing across my shoulders. I suck in a sharp hiss through gritted teeth, bracing for each subsequent impact as the braided strands mercilessly kiss my flesh.

Not deep enough to slice through skin just yet, merely leave livid welts in their wake. I manage to power through the initial barrage, fingers twitching against sweat-slicked palms as fiery tendrils spread with every fresh lash.

By the tenth strike, perspiration stings my squinted eyes, beads rolling in rivulets down the corded columns of muscle etched with each ragged breath. The first trickles of blood from shallow breaks in my shredded skin trickle downward, cooling in the dank air and causing involuntary shivers to ricochet along my spine.

Allowing my head to loll forward, I take the brief respite to recentre myself—chest heaving as I mentally retreat behind that familiar fortification. Pain is just a vessel to transcend, a crucible to endure with the same stoic resolve that’s kept me alive this long.

Hansley’s silent nod gives the Enforcer his next cue, the command to escalate these sufferings unspoken yet perfectly clear. The whistling descent of leather precedes the explosive bloom of fresh anguish as skin parts in earnest, bright crimson welling from each new laceration.

A guttural groan tears itself from the deepest recesses of my core as the Enforcer’s swings intensify, no longer inhibited by restraint. White spots begin bursting across my vision with every blistering impact, the pungent tang of copper pervading the stale air.

The final strike is enough to have me lurching forward against my bonds, a piteous whine echoing from somewhere primal as my knees buckle, the full brunt of my weight now suspended from shoulders already screaming in torment.

“Enough,” Hansley’s clipped tone slices through the shroud of anguish fogging my senses. “Have you had your fill of repentance, boy?”

Head swimming, I manage to force my eyes into some semblance of focus—greedily gulping down lungfuls of stale oxygen to help regain my bearings. The words practically claw their way up my abused throat, every syllable dripping defiance and contempt.

“Why don’t you… go fuck yourself, you… twisted old cunt?”

Hansley merely tsks in response, shaking her head with that same infuriating look of detached amusement ghosting across her porcelain features.

“I’ve more pressing matters requiring my attention with the Council,” she murmurs, turning to address the hulking figure lingering just out of sight. “But I’m granting you leave to continue extracting whatever additional… penance you deem necessary to drill the appropriate lessons home. Just don’t go killing the foolish ingrate outright—we may still yet have need of his services.”

With that final dismissive utterance, she pivots on one impeccably-heeled foot and stalks towards the chamber’s sole exit, the groan of metal on metal echoing through the cramped space as she passes through. Only then does the Enforcer’s gruff timbre reach my ears.

“You’d be bloody wise to start kissing her arse like the rest of us, boy.”

Jaw clenched until the muscles cord beneath my skin, I sneer up at the mottled concrete overhead—too drained to even bother attempting to twist around and face the bastard lurking at my back.

“Just… fucking get on with it… mate,” I hiss between ragged pants. “No reason to… to drag this charade out any longer than… necessary.”

A resigned sigh is my only answer before that dreaded lash whistles once more, opening new seeping wounds with a fresh wave of white-hot torment. I simply allow my consciousness to drift, focusing inward until only that pulsing cadence of agony grounds my awareness in place.

This is all for her—this girl who’s utterly bewitched me with her tenacity and stubborn fire. Every lash, every blow endured to try to shield Briar from the worst of these depraved depredations foisted upon us. My body may remain anchored in this waking hell, but my soul now resides solely in her keeping—for however momentary our connection might prove to be.