Page 98 of Tear Me Down (Descent to Darkness Trilogy #2)
We walk through and the mood completely changes.
The air feels heavy and thick, coated with a lingering iron taste and something else that almost instantly provokes my gag reflex.
Blood coats the floor and walls, almost blending in entirely with the black flooring and walls, and while it’s hard to make out, I swear I see teeth and body parts scattered along the floor.
Without even looking directly at my attacker, I can feel the violence that radiates from the room.
Pure rage, hatred, and sadism linger in the air, and while I know that, logically, that should have me cowering and running away, I don’t.
This was done in my name, and it strengthens the powerful feelings that forced me to storm my way down here.
My eyes are brought to the table off to the side, the dark surface also covered in blood, and many of the tools are obviously thrown around with disorganization.
Evidence of a mad man, or a psychopath, on a mission.
So many instruments and tools lay on top, all ranging from things like pliers and wrenches to knives and saws.
Those are just the things I recognize. The others are…
questionable, something only a deranged mind would create, and I know Damien constructed them—potentially with his own two hands.
There’s something that looks like a makeshift hole puncher, two wooden boards with nails through them, and some kind of probe that’s hooked up to a couple of wires.
Almost all of the objects on this table seem to have been used.
Either that, or some of them were just splattered with the aftermath of others, but it doesn’t seem likely.
The whole time I was upstairs in La-La Land, he’s been down here, fighting yet another battle for me, but he’s done it in the most excruciatingly beautiful way.
I try to suppress the shiver running down my spine, but I don’t succeed.
The feeling is almost as mixed and erratic as my emotions right now, ranging from disgust, interest, and arousal.
His screams already haunt this room, echoing quietly behind me as I imagine the carnage as it was being performed.
Perhaps it’s my own psyche playing tricks on me, but with acts as heinous and divine as these, they’re sure to leave a mark on the physical world.
I feel as Damien walks up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, encasing me in a hold that might as well be a demon’s wings.
He’s exquisite, an ethereal punishment trapped in a human body.
My dark angel. My God of War, a icon of violence that only softens for me and those he’s sees worthy.
I realized long ago that his darkness matches mine, only that he feels at home in it, and he presented the throne next to him that was made special for me.
I shouldn’t feel so accepted in this atmosphere.
So cherished and loved, but as the familiar heat pools in my lower belly, I fall into the epiphany that this is our domain. One we both dread, but flourish in.
His everlasting hold on me tightens, and as his hard dick presses into my back, I melt against him, embracing our connection and feeling my chest swell.
Hot and heavy breaths escape his lips, brushing down my ear and neck as he tries to contain his own urges, heightening my arousal.
I shiver again as his hands roam my body, trying to be careful of my cuts and wounds, but as I press myself back against him, he adds pressure, understanding that I want to feel it.
The tension between us is palpable, and as one of his hands glides up my body to my throat, I shiver again, having needed this touch more than I needed to breathe.
His hand wraps around the top of my throat and jaw, not squeezing at all, but gripping subtly to show his dominance.
The other hand moves down to my lightly bloated stomach and faintly runs across, back and forth, in a motion that would normally be soothing, but obviously turns him on even more.
His cock pulses against me as he presses harder, proving his need.
I turn and kiss him gently, a silent promise of soon before I turn back to the table.
I look across, noticing Damien’s favorite knife tucked away in the corner, seemingly untouched as I reach down to grab it.
As I unsheathe the blade, I see it completely clean, as if he wanted it in perfect condition for when he finally used it.
This knife is similar to the one that was used, though this one is much more elegant.
It curves just right at the end, and the serrated edges point out in perfect waves, carefully constructed to leave wounds that would be almost impossible to close back up.
I’ve seen this knife in action plenty of times by now, but watching him wield it is a sight I’ll never tire of.
He was waiting to use this, and now he’ll get to, just not how he expected, I’m sure.
As I continue to look over the blade, he resumes his soothing movements, and I feel myself relax as his breaths get heavier.
It’s almost as if he’s literally pushing our worries away, forcing me to slip into a peaceful state like he always does, until I hear a strained, deep moan from behind us…
We both turn to see Dranan regaining whatever consciousness remains, and I'm finally forced to lay eyes upon him again. His face is deeply bruised, along with chunks of skin missing from all over his body. His breathing is rigid, and his ribcage looks deformed from the obviously broken bones. He almost looks fictional, as if Damien pulled him right off the page of The Walking Dead. The chunks missing from his limbs look as if he was left to the elements and ripped apart by a wild animal, and as I continue to look over the scraps of what’s left, all of the tools behind me start to make sense.
I think I know what the hole punch does now.
His toes look flattened, cracked, and split open.
Hell, from this distance, his feet look webbed, as if his toes were pressed down and sewed together—his fingers look identical.
The small bleeding dots from either side of both of his knees, or what’s left of them, match the same pattern as the nails through these wooden boards.
Even though I should be sickened by what’s in front of me, I’m more or less intrigued, like I should piece together what happened here and store it away in my memories.
Damien’s methods of torture are like a dance, a cold and calculated ballet that moves with grace.
I walk up to him, close enough to be sure he can see me, wanting to be the last thing his eyes stare at before he dies.
He can barely keep his swollen eyes open, but I know curiosity is getting the best of him as we stare at each other.
Damien walks up behind me and grabs me again, though I make it a point not to break eye contact with Dranan.
I'm guessing if he could, he’d be speaking right now, attempting to sling any last insults our way, but from the close up of him and the drool escaping his mouth, his jaw looks to be broken.
From the slight part of his lips, I can see where the teeth are missing, and the cuts that run down both sides of his face make his appearance look ghostly .
Damien begins to run his hand over my hip again, and despite the racing thoughts through my mind, I feel the slickness between my legs.
This beaten, bloody, and mangled man hanging in front of me shouldn’t enhance my arousal, but I’ve fallen too deep, and the feelings only solidify my rightful place.
Standing tall next to my husband.
Never taking my gaze off of Dranan, I reach back with my free hand and unlatch Damien’s belt just before popping the button of his jeans.
He tightens his hold on me ever so slightly, clearly hesitating and wondering if he should let me continue, but he doesn’t try to stop me as I pull down his zipper and slip my hand inside his boxers.
My hand grazes the soft, taut skin of his hip until I reach the base of his hard cock, causing him to draw in a quiet gasp.
That gasp turns into a growl that sneaks its way to my ear, and it grows into a groan as I wrap my fingers around his shaft.
He bucks into my hold, showing his desperation and driving me to move.
I glide along his cock, stroking him slowly as he begins to use his hands to scour my body and match my pace.
It’s clear that he’s still trying not to hurt me, but he doesn’t understand that I need him to.
While this may be for me, and for us, this show is also for the bastard hanging in front of us.
A presentation of proof that he hasn’t taken anything away, and that everything he has said will die along with him.
I squeeze his dick a little harder than necessary to get my point across, and it twitches in my grasp.
His body tenses against me as I stroke his velvety skin with deliberate movements, and he finally gets the hint.
He adds more pressure to the touches on my body, grazing over the cuts and bruises to purposely make them sting.
Small bites from the wounds pop against my body and bee-line to my core, making me pick up my pace only a little.
His hands move with mine as one travels to my hips and starts bunching my wedding dress in his hand, desperate to feel what’s underneath.