Page 180 of Hymns of the Broken

And I pray this ends before I shatter completely.

He rears back, the paddle lands again—once, twice—smashing across both thighs. Each strike sears through me like fire, leaving me writhing, my body convulsing in the chains. Then he swings lower, landing a brutal blow right against my center. White-hot pain detonates through me, stealing my breath. My whole body spasms, my voice raw and breaking.

“Please—please, stop! Please—” I choke out, shattered, all pride gone. “You can do whatever, just don’t hit me anymore. Please.”

He leans in, tongue dragging through my tears, tasting them, like my pain is some victory for him. His lips press against mine—hot, shaking, possessive, disgusting. My stomach flips with rage and revulsion as he whispers, his hand moving to my hip, smearing the blood with his thumb like it’s paint.

“You look so fucking good when you break, Sawyer. That’s when I love you most.”

Love. God, don’t you dare call this love.

He grabs me under my thighs, and I go limp, my body deadweight in his arms. The chains bite deeper into my wrists, the metal bruising me as he hoists me higher. Then he lines himself up and pushes inside—no care, no patience, just brutal claiming. Every thrust feels like another violation, another scar on my soul. My head drops back against the wall, the pain radiating everywhere, making my body feel stretched and raw and burning from the inside out.

He sets a relentless pace, brutal and unyielding. I’m nothing but an object to him—just a body to fuck, a hole to conquer, a possession to mark.

“I’m gonna feel you come on my cock, baby,” he grits out, voice sharp with obsession. “You do that, and I’ll reward you. I’ll fill you up with my cum and then I’ll make you feel okay.”

Okay? You’ll never make me okay. I’ll scrub my skin until it bleeds before I let this feel like anything but pain.

I barely register his hand reaching up to the shelf until I hear it—the low hum of the vibrator. My stomach lurches.

“No…” The word is a hoarse whisper, drowned by the sound of water hitting tile. No. Not this.

I hate him. God, I hate him. I hate the way he looks at me, the way he acts as if this is power, as if this is love. And worst of all—I hate myself. Hate the way my body responds, the way I can’t control it. The way everything blurs into this disgusting cocktail of pain and unwanted pleasure, fear, and humiliation.

I want to sneer. I want to spit inhisface and tellhimthe truth—that the only way he could ever make me come is with a toy. That Jasper or Riot could do it with just a look, with just their voices, with just their fucking hands. But I can’t. I can’t risk more pain. I can’t find my voice. My tongue is heavy, my throat raw.

He presses the vibrator to my clit, grinding it in circles against me, his voice a filthy rasp against my ear.

“Bet you feel so used right now, don’t you? I’m the only one who’ll ever make you cum like this, chained up, crying for me. You look so fucking pretty about to fall apart.”

I want to scream. I want to vanish. I want to be anywhere but here. But it builds anyway—unstoppable. My body betrays me; my muscles tighten despite the shame flooding my veins. My breath stutters, humiliation burns like acid through my chest, and I feel the edge—closer, closer—like I’m about to shatter in the worst possible way.

And then—

Bang.

A loud, violent crash from somewhere in the house.

It jolts Blake and me both—his head snaps up, eyes wide with panic.

He drops me, letting my feet hit the tile floor hard, wrists screaming as the chains yank me down. My body crumples, sore, wet, shaking. He grabs his jeans, shoves himself inside, and bolts, naked and terrified, leaving the paddle and vibrator behind.

I’m left gasping and sobbing. But somewhere, beneath the pain and tears, hope flares to life for the first time.

Someone’s here. Someone’s coming.

Please, please, please…

I curl against the cold tile of the wall, wrists burning, body battered and wet. Water still hisses down, drowning out the rest of the world, but even through the rush, I hear it—shouting, glass shattering, the unmistakable crack of gunfire. My heart seizes. For a moment, I think I’m hallucinating. But then another shot rings out, closer, louder.

Oh, my god. Somebody found me.

I want to call for them, scream—but my voice is a rasp, my throat raw from begging.

Please, please, please.

JASPER