Page 69 of Shattered In Darkness

I want to scream in his face. Instead, a whimper leaks out. I hate myself for giving him that little scrap of weakness. I see the satisfaction ripple through his shoulders. He loves it; I know he does.

He drags his thumb along my jaw, his hand is gloved and cold. My skin breaks out in fire and ice, prickling up my spine.

“Play nice, and it goes easier,” he purrs.

He lets me go, sudden, brutal. I lurch away, knees buckling. Crashing to the floor, I scramble towards the mattress, but it’s pathetic. He doesn’t even try to hold me down. He stands over me, still and silent. The skull is inescapable.

“You belong to me now,” he says.

I press my back into the freezing wall and curl up. He watches me again; he likes to watch me. I glare at him. Without another word, he leaves. The door shuts, and the darkness takes over again.

19

LOLA

Time does not exist here. The window’s just a square of dirty glass, moonlight now replaced by washed-out morning. Snow leeches all color.

My body aches from the mattress, if you can call a slab of foam a bed. My mouth is still dry, my wrists throb, faint bruises blooming where he pinned me down.

I’m alone. But I’m not alone.

I listen for footsteps. For breath. For the scrape of boots outside the door. Nothing. Just the hum of cold, and my own pulse thrumming too loud in my ears.

When the lock finally turns, I flinch. I can’t help it. He fills the doorway. Skull mask, broad shoulders. He watches me. Always watching.

He carries a mug and sets it on the shelf. “Eat.” That’s all he says. I don’t move fast enough. He stalks over, grabs my chin with rough fingers. My jaw aches as he makes me look up at him. The black hollows of his mask swallow all the light. “You do what I say, or you get nothing,” he murmurs. Low and patient like he has all the time in the world to break me.

I glare, lips pressed tight, but my stomach betrays me. I snatch the mug, gulp the weak coffee, hands shaking so hard I spill some. He watches every movement. I hate that I feel it, hate how my body sparks when he stares.

He sits on the edge of the bed, close enough for heat but leaving just an inch of space. His knee brushes mine, and I freeze. His gloved hand drags a line up my thigh. Not enough to be gentle, just enough to remind me he can. “Are you scared?” he asks. “Or do you like being caged?”

I choke on a laugh. “You’re sick.”

He leans in, mask almost grazing my ear. “Not as sick as you, Lola. I know the truth. You like it when someone’s in control.”

My face burns. I want to spit in his eye. I want to beg him to touch me. I do nothing. He stands. grabbing my jaw again, thumb pressing into the bruise he left. “Good girl. Stay obedient. Maybe I’ll reward you.”

I’m shaking, breathless, ruined. Every nerve is alive and screaming. I hate him. I hate whoever he is. I hate how much my body wants to obey.

“Fuck you. I don’t belong to you.”

He grabs me by the chin. Violently. “You do belong to me. There’s no one left but us. Get fucking used to it.”

“Yeah, in your dreams. How about you take off the mask and show me who you really are.” I challenge him, hoping he gives in.

He shakes his head. “You don’t want to know who I really am. What I’m capable of.” His finger makes a path from my chin, down to my chest, then to my hips. His grip is rough. “You’re trembling. That’s fear, isn’t it?” His other gloved hand slides to my throat, stopping at my pulse. “Or is it something else?” I don’t answer. I can’t. I’m trapped between his breath and his heat. I am drowning in it. “You want to know who’s behind the mask? Too fucking bad. I’m in control, and you will obey.” His tone becomes cold and dark. It reminds me of Marcus.

“You know, you sound just like him. Marcus. Don’t act so high and mighty when you and him are on the same level.” That seems to get a reaction.

He forces me into the wall, erupting with anger. “You’re wrong. I am nothing like that fucking bastard.” His chest heaves, and I can imagine him snarling underneath the mask. His gloved finger hooks in the waistband of my pants, tugging, possessive. “Take it off.”

My breath catches. “What?”

“Fucking take it off. I will show you a glimpse of who I can be when you say shit like that. How fucking ashamed I can make you.”

He waits. Silent, towering, unmovable. He wants a show. Humiliation burns my cheeks, but the fear is hotter. I peel my shirt over my head, arms shaking, and let it fall to the floor. I wait.

He cocks his head, watching every motion. “All of it.”