CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“I feel like my heart is going to explode,” he gasps out. He is sweating something fierce.
“It won’t,” I say calmly. “Just take a deep breath and try to relax while I decide what we’re going to do next. Would you like some water?”
“Yes…” he gasps out.
I take him a bottle and hold it to his lips. “You might survive this yet,” I say bemusedly.
I see it in his eyes instantly, a spark of hope, but it falters. I don’t think he really believes me. I let him drink his fill and then I set the bottle down.
“I’m going to clean some of your wounds. We don’t want you to get an infection just yet.” I get out the antiseptic spray and some gauze. The longer I treat him, the longer he’ll stay alive.
“Please turn off the lamps,” he groans.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” I say softly. “It’s necessary.”
I look at the spot where I carved the word sister into the side of his thigh, and I spray it with antiseptic and clean it up. He hisses and I try not to smile. His pain is my gain, after all.
Once it’s clean, I leave it to air-dry before I go get a small grater. He can’t see what I have. He’s still being blinded by the bright lamps. I spray the grater with antiseptic and then use alcohol swabs to wipe his nipples.
“No, what are you doing?” he groans out. “Please, I can’t take it anymore.”
“You will take it for the rest of the week. If you want to see your family again, this is the only way. You have to survive. Just three more nights and this will all be over.”
He pants and I know he’s going to scream. It’s just a result of what I do. There are always screams.
I hold the grater under his nipple, press down, and drag it up. It draws blood, and yes; he does scream. A delightful, blood-curdling scream that would set normal people’s teeth on edge. I bring it down again and drag it up; the grater removing the flesh of the nipple and half the nipple itself. I smile and bring it down, once more dragging it up his chest, removing the last of the nipple and more flesh.
I transfer to the other nipple and repeat my actions, then I go over each wound until he is left with two bloody holes where his nipples should be.
“You don’t need those,” I say quietly. “Don’t worry, it won’t kill you.”
He tugs on his bindings, shifting the nails holding his hands in place. He cries out again and forcibly relaxes his body. He tenses up again and tries to pull his hands off the nails. It’s admirable, and I’m sure the adrenaline is helping. He managed to free one hand, with a gut-wrenching shriek he coughs up some blood.
“Don’t forget your broken ribs,” I say quietly. “Screaming will only hurt more. Now, what have you done here? This wasn’t part of the plan.”
I go over to inspect his hand, spraying it with bleach instead of disinfectant. He cries out, and his tears streaming down the sides of his sweaty face.
“We’ll have to fix that,” I say, going to retrieve the nail gun.
“No, please. You don’t have to…”
“Oh, but I do. It’s all part of the experience,” I say fondly, as though I’m a tourist guide taking someone on a tour of an ancient artifact or of someone else’s culture.
I position his hand over the wood again and select a fresher piece of flesh. I press the nail gun into his hand. With a thwack; I pin his hand back down.
He cries again, but he’s struggling to breathe. I give him a moment, and spend it going through my supplies. The night is still young, and there’s so much I can do with him over the next three nights before the grand finale.
I already have the second to last night planned out to the letter. It’s going to be glorious. And the final night, when I will use a special toy. A claimed toy.
I bring myself back to the present, where Boy is writhing in pain. I smile to myself and spray bleach where his nipples once were, making him cry again.
The night has barely begun, and I have many creative ideas about what to do to the boy tonight. I don’t want him to OD on adrenaline though, so I’ll take it slow. It might be a long night, but it will be worth it. Maybe once I’m done with Boy and Shiloh has completed her task, we can go on a little holiday together. A little break down to the seaside.
Just the two of us.
That would be nice.
“You know, I have a daughter. If anyone put her in danger, I don’t know how I’d forgive them. Do you think your parents would forgive you?”
“Yes,” he gasps out. “Of course they would.”
“You didn’t believe that four nights ago.” I spray his nipples again with bleach. “In fact, you were rather sure of that.”
“I was wrong. I wasn’t thinking straight,” he cries out.
“No, you’re not thinking straight now. You’re experiencing pain and adrenaline, and you’re blinded by the light. You’re going crazy slowly, Boy.”
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” he moans. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Oh, I believe you,” I say. “Do you believe me when I say that you will survive this? And come out stronger for it?”
It’s a lie, but a necessary one. I need him to believe. I need him to have hope. It makes this so much sweeter when they believe they’re going to survive.