5. 5 Tori
5: Tori
The sound of bullets cracking through the air jolts me awake from the long, miserable sleep I’d finally succumbed to after Nico refused to tell me more about why I was here in this house, or where Alicia was. My chest tightens, my pulse racing before I even register why. I sit up in the bed Nico dumped me in, ears straining.
Gunfire .
The sound is unmistakable. Quick, loud pops that make the silence of this place feel even more suffocating.
For one fleeting moment, hope crashes over me, too potent to contain.
Is it them?
Are they here?
I’m up and moving before I can talk myself out of it, sprinting to the window that overlooks the asylum. My eyes catch the faint flash of gunfire cutting through the darkness like tiny lightning bolts. I press my hand to the glass, heart pounding. It has to be them.
Who else could it be?
Adrenaline ignites something desperate in me, driving my feet faster than my brain can keep up. I stumble down the stairs, practically flying toward the one sliver of freedom I’ve managed to carve out of this nightmare: the window I found when I first arrived, the one that doesn’t lock.
But Nico is already there, standing like some immovable mountain. His arms are folded across his chest, his expression somewhere between bored and predatory. “Take a seat, Tori,” he says, his voice smooth as silk and twice as suffocating.
I hate him. I hate everything about this prison he’s locked me in. My nails dig into my palms as I clench my fists, ignoring the sting.
The gunshots outside fuel my desperation. My window of escape is closing fast, and I won’t let him—or fear—keep me from it. I move. Not toward him, but up and over the banister, landing hard enough that my knees scream in protest. No time to care.
I’m a blur as I sprint for the back door instead, lungs burning, heart pounding so loud it drowns out everything else. I can see my escape now, the brass doorknob calling to me. My hand closes around the cold metal knob, twisting it open as the night air floods my senses. Freedom .
But before I can take one step out, the door slams shut in my face.
A hand twists in my hair, yanking me back so hard that pain bursts along my scalp. I cry out, my hands clawing at Nico’s iron grip. “Defiance isn’t a good look on you, Tori,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with infuriating calm.
I thrash, twisting, doing everything I can to break free, but he’s too strong. Too smug. His long strides eat up the distance as he drags me back, his focus already shifting to the stairs. He’s got a plan, a goal, and it doesn’t include letting me go.
Every step takes me further away from the door, from the gunfire, from them . My boys. My future.
Panic claws at my chest as I realize the shots are fading. The fight is moving further away, the sound slipping out of reach like water through my fingers. They're retreating.
They can't get to me.
The weight of that helplessness presses on me like I’m sinking into quicksand. The harder I struggle, the more it tightens its grip. Tears burn my eyes, threatening to spill as Nico drags me deeper into this waking nightmare.
Please don’t go , I want to scream into the night. I’m here! Don’t leave me!
But the words stay trapped in my throat. Instead, I let out a guttural cry, one last burst of defiance as I twist harder in his grip. It’s not enough.
The gunfire fades completely, and with it, the last shred of hope I was clinging to. The weight in my chest threatens to break me, but I grit my teeth, swallowing the sob clawing its way up.
I can’t break. Not now. Not when I need to survive. Not when I need to find another way out.
Nico's grip is relentless as he drags me up the stairs, each tug making my scalp scream in protest. The whole way, his silence gnaws at me, like I'm really in for it now. The walls blur past, my heart pounding louder than my racing footsteps.
When we reach the room, he kicks the door open like it's his sworn enemy and he's determined to kill it. I barely have time to turn before he yanks me inside, slamming the door behind us. His hand twists harder in my hair, forcing my head back so I’m staring straight into his cold, calculating eyes.
“I was being polite,” he hisses, his voice low and venomous, like a snake coiled and ready to strike. “Letting you ease into this house, into your future role. But it seems you need a firmer hand. A reminder that you’re not theirs anymore. You’re mine .”
The words are like acid, burning through me as he shoves me onto the bed. I scramble back, but he’s too fast. His hand closes around my wrist, jerking me down with enough force that I feel the bruise forming before I even hit the mattress.
I try to kick him, to claw at him, but it’s useless. He grabs a coil of rope from his pocket—like he’d planned this—and ties my wrists to the headboard so quickly it seems almost like a habit, like he's done this a million times before. He grabs more rope from the nightstand beside us and binds my feet together, leaving me to wriggle around like a worm.
“Go to hell,” I spit, yanking against the bindings, the rope digging into my skin.
“Keep talking,” he says, his tone calm, almost amused. “It won’t change what happens next.”
He rips my shirt open with one sharp motion, the sound of tearing fabric making my stomach churn. His gaze rakes over me, predatory and possessive, as he leans down, pressing his lips to the curve of my neck.
“You don’t just belong to me in name, Tori,” he murmurs, his voice low and cruel against my skin. “Your body belongs to me, too. And I’ll use it however the hell I want. Be thankful I haven’t done so already.”
I thrash, my breath coming in sharp bursts as his hand moves to my hip, his fingers digging into my skin hard enough to bruise. He’s enjoying this, the power, the control, and it makes my stomach twist in disgust.
“You need a reminder,” he says, pulling back just enough to meet my glare. “Something permanent.”
My blood turns to ice as he reaches for the bedside table again, opening the same drawer, only this time he pulls out a small, metal branding iron, its tip shaped like a twisted letter ‘N.’
“No,” I breathe, my voice shaking as fear floods my veins.
“Oh, yes,” he says, his smirk widening as he holds it up. “You’ll carry my mark, Tori. So no one else forgets who you belong to. Least of all you.”
I thrash harder, desperation clawing at my throat. “You’re insane!”
He laughs, a cold, humorless sound, and presses the iron to a small, portable torch he’s also pulled out. The tip glows red-hot, and panic rises like a wave, threatening to drown me.
“You’re mine,” he says again, his voice steady and calm, like he’s stating a fact.
He leans closer, his free hand tracing the curve of my breast as he murmurs, “Hold still, Tori. This will only hurt for a moment.”
I scream, twisting against the bindings, but they’re unyielding. I feel the heat before the iron even touches my skin, and my mind races, desperate for a way out.
But there’s nothing. No escape. Just the suffocating weight of helplessness as Nico prepares to leave his mark—permanently.
He presses the iron to my skin between my collarbone and my breast, the searing pain instant and overwhelming. I bite down on my lip to stifle the scream, my body arching involuntarily against the bindings. The metallic sizzle of flesh burns into my nose, a smell I’ll never be able to forget.
Tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me break. The branding feels like it lasts an eternity, the heat boring into me, a grotesque symbol of his control.
Finally, he pulls the iron away, leaving behind an ugly, raw mark. “There,” he says, his voice almost tender as he examines his work. “Perfect.”
He sets the iron aside and retrieves a small first-aid kit from the drawer, opening it to dab ointment onto the burn. The coolness offers little relief, the pain still radiating through me in waves.
“You’ll want this to heal properly,” he says, his tone calm, as if he’s discussing a mundane injury. “Wouldn’t want to mar that pretty skin too much.”
I flinch as his fingers glide over the fresh burn, his touch lingering. His eyes meet mine, cold and unrelenting. “Everything about you is mine, Tori. Don’t forget that. Your body, your mind, hell, even your soul. All mine. ”
He trails his fingers downward, tracing the curve of my breast, his touch feather-light but revolting. My body recoils, but the bindings hold me in place, leaving me at his mercy.
He smirks at my reaction, his hand moving up to my neck, his fingers brushing along my collarbone. “You’ve got such a lovely frame, Tori,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “It’s a shame they ever thought they deserved it.”
His hands slide behind my back, unhooking my bra with infuriating ease. He breaks the straps and pulls it off, tossing it aside and leaving me bare before him. “You’ll sleep like this,” he declares, his voice as cold as the night air creeping through the cracks in the room.
I clench my jaw, refusing to meet his gaze.
“Oh, don’t pout,” he says, his fingers tilting my chin up so I’m forced to look at him. “You’ll get used to it.”
He stands, shrugging off his shirt and undoing his belt with deliberate slowness, as if daring me to react. When he’s down to his boxers, he climbs into the bed beside me, his presence suffocating.
“Now, here’s how this is going to work,” he says, leaning close enough that I can feel his breath on my skin. “If you so much as whimper, cry, or make a sound tonight, I’ll shove my dick down your throat to shut you up. Understood?”
I glare at him, my chest heaving with suppressed rage and humiliation, but I don’t respond.
He chuckles, lying back with an air of satisfaction. “Good girl,” he says, his voice dripping with mockery. “Now, sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day, Tori.”
He turns off the light, leaving me in darkness, the brand on my chest throbbing with every beat of my heart. I stare up at the ceiling, fighting the tears that threaten to spill. The ropes bite into my wrists, into my very being.
I have to get out of here. Somehow. Some way.
But for now, all I can do is lie here, silent and seething, the mark of his possession burning into me as a cruel reminder of what’s been taken—and what I refuse to let him keep.
The night is a miserable haze of pain and defiance, the throbbing pain making every attempt to sleep impossible. Nico's presence beside me is a constant reminder of how far I’ve fallen into this nightmare. His breathing is slow and steady, as if branding a person and tying them up beside him is just another Tuesday night.
I try to shift into a more comfortable position, but the ropes dig into my wrists, leaving my skin raw. It’s a cruel trick of exhaustion—my body is desperate for rest, but my mind won’t stop racing. Every creak of the house, every distant sound of the night, sends a fresh wave of unease through me.
Finally, at some point, I slip into a restless sleep, only to wake with a start as I feel movement near me. My eyes snap open to see Nico leaning over me, undoing the bindings around my wrists.
“Good morning, Tori,” he murmurs, his voice unnervingly soft as he pulls the rope free. He leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead, his lips cold and unfeeling. “You did good last night.”
I don’t reply, my throat too dry and my mind too foggy with lingering exhaustion to muster a response. He straightens and walks toward the door, leaving the room without another word.
The moment the door clicks shut, I’m moving, my body fueled by sheer determination. I immediately unbind my ankles and grab the nearest shirt, throwing it on in record time. My wrists ache as I rub at the marks the ropes left behind, but I don’t have time to dwell on them. I need answers.
Was it really them last night? Blaze, Thorne, Ryder? My heart lurches at the possibility, even as doubt clouds my mind. What if it wasn’t? What if this was just another cruel twist in this nightmare?
I head for the door, pulling it open with cautious urgency, only to find Marcus standing there, a wall of muscle and apathy blocking my path. I picked up his name from the other goon who helped tie me up before handing me off to Marcus to move to the house.
Marcus doesn’t have Nico’s swagger, the same unnerving confidence that could make the devil himself take a step back. But there’s a certain sharpness to him, a calculated precision. He’s not a man you underestimate—or try to outrun.
He's handsome, too handsome for this line of work. I'd say the closest he should be to this life is by being in a mafia K-Drama. His skin is flawless, his cheekbones high and his face slender. He's a Korean man that could be mistaken for an actor… at least I think he's Korean.
The day before yesterday, Marcus came and dragged me out of the cell, pulling me away from Alicia without a word. He brought me to this house, told me to unpack my things, and has been keeping guard like a second shadow whenever Nico is not there.
“Morning, sunshine,” I say, folding my arms and giving him my best sardonic smile. “You here to ruin my day, or is that just a fun bonus?”
Marcus doesn’t even flinch. His expression is as unreadable as ever, his stance unmoving. “You’re not leaving,” he says simply, his voice as solid as the door he’s guarding.
“Oh, come on, Marcus,” I say, stepping closer. “I just want some fresh air. Maybe take a stroll, figure out why this house has all the charm of a prison cell.”
“No.”
“Wow. You really know how to spoil a girl, don’t you?” I tilt my head, feigning curiosity. “Tell me, do you practice being this fun, or is it just natural talent?”
He doesn’t even blink.
I sigh, rolling my eyes. “Fine. Be a statue. See if I care.”
But I do care, and I’m not about to let him win. I lunge toward the doorway, trying to dart past him, but Marcus is faster. His hand shoots out, grabbing my shirt and pulling me to a halt. The motion yanks the collar down just enough to reveal the brand Nico left on my chest.
His eyes flick to it, and for the first time, I see something other than indifference in his expression. Pity.
He exhales heavily, his grip loosening slightly. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”
“Call it a charming personality flaw,” I mutter, crossing my arms to hide the mark as best I can.
Marcus shakes his head, glancing down the hall as if checking for eavesdroppers. “You want to know about last night, don't you?”
“No shit,” I deadpan, wondering if he'll truly tell me what I want to know.
“It was them last night. Your guys. They came looking for you.”
My heart leaps, hope bubbling to the surface despite everything. “And?”
“ And they didn’t find you,” he says flatly, his gaze hardening again. “They’re gone now. Nico made sure of that.”
The hope is snuffed out as quickly as it came, leaving a hollow ache in its place.
Marcus steps back, shoving me toward the room with enough force to make me stumble. “Get back in your room,” he orders, his tone firm and solid.
I hesitate, glaring at him, but his expression is unreadable once more. Whatever flicker of pity he felt is buried again. With no other choice, I retreat into the room, the door slamming shut behind me. I sink onto the bed, my fists clenching as frustration and despair war within me.
They were here. They were so close. And now they’re gone.
But they’ll be back. They have to be. And when they return, I’ll be ready.
The silence in the room is oppressive, broken only by the muffled sounds of the house groaning around me. My thoughts swirl with too many emotions to sort through—frustration, anger, desperation. But above all, there's a gnawing determination clawing at me to stay focused.
If you just sit here and stew, you’ll lose your mind.
I push off the bed, my chest still aching from the fresh burn. My hand instinctively hovers near it, but I force myself to stop. There’s no time to wallow. If I’m going to get out of here, I need to start putting together the pieces.
The room Nico left me in is sterile—too clean for someone like him. It feels staged, like a set made for appearances rather than comfort. The furniture is sparse: a bed, a wardrobe, a nightstand, and a single chair by the window. Nothing screams personal, and yet, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more here than meets the eye.
I start with the nightstand, pulling the drawer open as quietly as I can. It’s mostly empty, save for his torture devices, which I quickly close and pretend I didn't see.
My pulse quickens as I move to the wardrobe next. The doors creak slightly as I open them, revealing a neat row of suits and a shelf lined with shoes. Nothing out of the ordinary, at least not at first glance. But tucked in the corner, half-hidden by a folded jacket, is a small wooden box.
I pull it out, my curiosity outweighing my caution. The lid is carved with intricate patterns, the kind of craftsmanship that suggests it’s old and important. I lift it carefully, revealing a handful of items inside: a silver lighter, a set of keys, and another photograph.
This one stops me cold.
It’s a picture of a woman, her hair much like mine, but it's her face that pauses me. Her features are too familiar, almost like looking into a mirror, but the eyes aren't quite right. Nico said he knew who my family was.
Is she my mother?
I barely have time to process the thought before I hear footsteps in the hall.
Shit .
I shove the picture back in the box and the box back into the wardrobe before closing the doors as quietly as I can, my heart pounding in my chest.
I dart to the chair by the window, curling my knees to my chest and forcing my gaze out at the landscape beyond the glass. When the door opens, I don’t flinch. I stay perfectly still, letting my face settle into a mask of boredom and sadness.
“Tori,” Nico’s voice cuts through the silence.
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, feigning disinterest. “Come to dole out more punishments, or are you satisfied with your branding?” I pull down my collar to show the mark, to force him to see what he'd done.
He doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he walks toward me, a large, puffed garment bag hanging on his fingers. It’s not until he’s closer that I realize it’s a wedding dress.
“Get up,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument as he hangs the garment bag over the closet door, opening it to reveal a white lace gown. The skirt is full and poofy, the kind of dress you’d expect to see in a bridal boutique window, not in an abandoned house at the end of a hellish hallway.
My breath catches, my chest tight and aching as my eyes dart around the room, searching for a way out. Anything to convince myself this isn’t what it looks like.
I’m overreacting. I have to be.
“Put it on.”
Nico’s voice cuts through my panic, sharp and cold as steel. It hits me like a bucket of ice water, freezing me in place. Every muscle in my body locks up. My hands feel heavy, useless. My legs might as well be cement. I can’t think. I can’t move.
“I said, put it on.” His tone deepens, dark and unyielding. “Or I’ll put it on you. Your choice.”
I meet his gaze, and the look in his eyes chills me to the bone. There’s no hesitation, no doubt—just a brutal determination to follow orders, no matter what they are.
Clearly, the smarter option is to put the dress on myself, but I can’t seem to convince my body to cooperate. My mouth is dry, my voice barely a whisper. “Oh, you’re really funny if you think I’ll let you anywhere near me with that thing.”
I am not sealing my fate by putting it on.
Nico’s jaw tightens, his expression hardening. “Then I guess I’ll do it for you.”
He stalks toward the dress, ripping it off the hanger in one smooth motion. He doesn’t make a scene, but his purposeful movements send a clear message: this is happening whether I like it or not.
He turns back to me, his eyes darker than before, the kind of dark that promises no good will come from defiance.
Flashback to last night, Tori. You really want him to do something worse?
Without another word, Nico steps forward, grabbing my shirt, and I immediately react. I grab his wrist, shake my head, and pull myself together. “I got it.”
The dress looms between us, a silent ultimatum I can’t bring myself to accept. I know what it means, even if I don’t understand why.
Why marry me?
The question churns in my head, drowning out thought, reason—everything but the numb shock freezing me in place. I’m still caught in that fog when Nico’s impatience grows and he grabs at my pants, tugging them down. The chill hits my bare legs, snapping me back to reality. A flush of anger cuts through the haze, and I meet Nico’s cold stare with my own, snatching the dress from his hands.
“I’m going!” I spit, stepping into the mountain of lace. “But next time, give a girl a second to process.”
I shimmy the gown up, peeling my shirt off in the same motion. The fabric clings like a suffocating second skin, so tight around my ribs I can barely breathe. The nausea swells, and for a fleeting moment, I consider throwing up on the damn thing just to see what would happen.
Nico probably has a backup. He seems the type.
“Wanna help?” I point at the zipper, sarcasm dripping from every word.
He’s careful to touch me, making sure his finger runs along my spine ahead of the zipper. “Let’s go,” he whispers into my ear.
His voice is steady, low, and too full of amusement. My stomach drops.
“Go?” I take a step back, every instinct screaming at me to run. My eyes dart toward the door, calculating. “Where?”
“To our wedding.”