Map of Pain (Neon Scars #3)
1. Pathetic, desperate gratitude.
Chapter one
Pathetic, desperate gratitude...
Nick
T he truck bed creaked under Nick’s shifting weight, metal ridges digging into his spine.
But also—impossibly soft Egyptian sheets caressed his fevered skin, two-thousand thread count silk that had never existed in this rust-eaten sanctuary.
The conflicting sensations made his skull swim.
Reality bled at the edges, six months of infection and exhaustion finally winning their war against his mind.
He blinked. Corrugated truck ceiling. Blinked again. Crystal chandelier.
The stench of gasoline from his latest wound treatment mingled with phantom Chanel Bleu—expensive, distinctive, Gianmarco’s signature cologne that had once saturated every surface of the penthouse.
Nick’s stomach lurched as his brain fought to separate past from present.
Wind whistled through gaps in his makeshift tarp roof, but underneath that sound, piano notes floated.
Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat major. Gianmarco’s favorite for quiet evenings when the screaming stopped.
Nick’s fingers flew to his throat. The scar pulled tight under his touch. Not real. Not there.
The fever dragged him under.
City lights gleamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting geometric patterns across Gianmarco’s immaculate white kitchen.
Nick’s fingers—all ten still attached—trembled against marble countertops.
His heart thundered against his ribs, a caged animal desperate for freedom that waited just beyond the front door.
Twenty-three steps away. He’d counted them obsessively for weeks.
The refrigerator hummed its quiet song. Nick’s bare feet made no sound on polished concrete as he edged toward sanctuary. The door gleamed like salvation itself.
“Going somewhere, kitten?”
Nick froze. Gianmarco’s voice materialized behind him—silk wrapped around razor wire. Never heard him approach. Never did.
“I just—”The lie died in Nick’s throat.
Gianmarco stepped into view with unhurried grace. Dark hair perfectly styled, suit unwrinkled despite the early hour. Magazine-cover perfect. Nick backed away until the door pressed against his spine, solid as a coffin lid.
“I was thinking we might order in tonight.”Gianmarco’s tone remained conversational, discussing weekend plans rather than punishment.“Perhaps from that Thai place you enjoyed last month.”
Nick’s knuckles scraped the doorknob. Locked. Always locked.
Gianmarco closed the distance. Cool fingers brushed Nick’s cheek with impossible tenderness.“Oh, kitten. We discussed this. You promised to be good.”
Disappointment. Worse than rage. Nick’s knees buckled.
“I’m sorry—I won’t—please—”
“Shh.”Gianmarco pressed one finger to Nick’s lips.“Come now. You know what happens next.”
The kitchen island transformed. Surgical tools arranged in perfect alignment on sterile white cloth—scalpel, forceps, clamps, gauze. Gianmarco positioned each implement with reverent precision, movements methodical as prayer.
“Please.”Nick’s voice cracked. Tears carved hot tracks down his cheeks as Gianmarco secured his wrist to the countertop with silk restraints that felt like the gentlest noose.“I’ll be good. I promise I’ll be good. I won’t try again.”
“I know you mean that now.”Gianmarco selected the scalpel, angling it to catch the warm glow of recessed lighting.“But pain teaches us. Pain helps us remember. This will help you become who you’re meant to be.”
The blade kissed the the top knuckle of Nick’s pinky finger. Precise. Clinical. Loving.
Nick screamed until his voice shattered.
Gianmarco worked with surgeon-like focus, face serene as he separated flesh from bone. Blood pooled on white marble, stark as paint on canvas. When it was finished, he cleaned the wound and wrapped it in pristine bandages with the care of a devoted nurse.
“There now.”Gianmarco wiped tears from Nick’s face with his thumbs.“All finished.”
He gathered Nick’s trembling body against his chest, cradling him like something precious and fragile. Strong fingers stroked through Nick’s hair, gentle circles against his scalp that felt like absolution.
“Good boy. You took that so beautifully. I’m so proud of you.”
The words shattered what remained of Nick’s resistance. Gratitude flooded him—pathetic, desperate gratitude for this scrap of kindness after such exquisite agony.
Gianmarco pressed cool lips to Nick’s forehead.“It won’t happen again if you’re good. You can be good for me, can’t you?”
“Yes,”Nick sobbed into expensive fabric.“I can be good.”
A melody drifted through the chaos—wordless, haunting. Nick knew this tune somehow, though he couldn’t place where he’d heard it before. The confusion cut through his fever-fog like cold water, pulling him up through layers of memory until—
A metallic clang shattered the music.
Nick’s eyelids snapped open, his body jerking upright with violent force.
The sudden movement sent lightning through his infected stump—six months of untreated amputation site screaming its protests.
Where was he? The box under Gianmarco’s bed.
No room to move. No air to breathe. Silk restraints cutting into his ankles.
Truck bed liner scratched against his cheek. Not silk. Not the box. The junkyard. His territory for the past month, chosen because the rusted cab blocked sight lines and the drainage ditch offered quick escape routes.
Nick uncurled from the tight ball he’d unconsciously formed, arms wrapped protectively around his torso.
Old habits carved deep by two years of ownership.
His muscles screamed from holding the position.
How long had he been unconscious? Darkness pressed against his tarp, but that could mean anything when fever time moved like thick honey and he’d lost track of day and night cycles weeks ago.
Cold air sliced through sweat-soaked clothing, then heat crashed over him in waves. His skin burned from the inside out while his bones felt packed with ice. The infection cycled through him—freezing, burning, freezing again. Reality wavered like heat shimmer off summer asphalt.
His right fingers tingled with pins and needles.
He flexed them to restore circulation, then watched phantom digits curl in response from his missing left hand.
The stump ached worse than the real appendages ever had, nerve endings firing signals into space where Marcus Graves’ machete had carved away his future.
The makeshift tarp roof fluttered against wind, creating shifting shadows across his carefully constructed shelter.
Stolen hospital blankets lay tangled around his legs.
Three water bottles—one empty, two half-full—lined up against the cab window in precise military formation.
His territory. His prison. His sanctuary.
Another metallic sound drew his attention to the perimeter. Small bells strung on fishing line surrounded the truck bed—his early warning system, refined through months of paranoid engineering. One bell chimed softly, wire still vibrating. Something had disturbed his outer ring of defenses.
Monster or human? Both wanted him dead for different reasons. The Daylight Society would execute him for betraying his handler, Henderson, and saving his brother. Vampires would kill him for being exactly what he was—a hunter trained to put them in the ground.
Nick pulled himself upright, fighting the wave of dizziness that followed.
The stump needed checking again. Even in the dim glow from distant streetlights filtering through his tarp, he could see angry red streaks climbing his forearm like infection highways.
Yellow-green drainage had soaked through the last bandage, the smell sharp enough to cut through his congested sinuses.
The plastic bottle of gasoline sat within reach—his only antiseptic, stolen from an abandoned car three blocks away.
Nick unscrewed the cap with shaking fingers, breathing through his mouth to avoid the chemical burn of fumes.
The rag he used as a bandage was filthy, crusted with old blood and fresh pus.
He poured gasoline directly onto the stump.
Teeth clenched against the burn. A high-pitched whine escaped through his locked jaw. This pain was clean, controllable. Not like the spreading fire that consumed him from within, turning his blood to acid and his thoughts to fragments.
Nick knew it wasn’t working. The gasoline couldn’t stop what was happening. The infection climbed higher each day, fever burned hotter each night. He was running out of time. Running out of stolen antibiotics. Running out of strength to steal more.
But the mental fog burned away like morning mist, replaced by crystalline clarity.
Nick’s pulse slowed as his mind shifted gears—tactical, focused, cold as winter steel.
The hunter stirred inside him, protocols engaging automatically after hundreds of missions.
His fingers mapped familiar weapon positions: steel hunting knife strapped to his calf, crossbow with three remaining bolts hidden under truck bed liner, makeshift club fashioned from tire iron and barbed wire.
Two escape routes plotted and memorized.
Drop through the rusted hole in truck bed floor, roll behind the engine block for cover.
Sprint for drainage ditch, use concrete culvert as chokepoint if pursued.
Four hiding spots within twenty yards. Twelve within fifty.
Every angle calculated, every advantage catalogued.
The hunter’s inventory was automatic. Precise. Comforting.
Nick’s hearing sharpened as adrenaline and training working together. Footsteps approached his position, but wrong. Too light, too precise for human locomotion. Human feet would drag, stumble on uneven junkyard terrain. These moved with unnatural grace across broken glass and twisted metal.
Target identified. The silent monster he’d been tracking for months.