Chapter Five
Fuck the Pain Away
Unknown Location
Happiness. Joy. Laughter. Love. These are the fleeting emotions souls wish they could take with them to the OtherWorld. When mortals face my blade, they yearn for their brightest moments.
But not me. They can keep their smiles. I crave the dark. Shelter me in sorrow. Bring on the pain.
Nothing makes me feel more alive than when I hurt.
But souls cannot feel much of anything. Trust me, I’ve tried.
The countless nights spent crawling across stone floors, cutting at my undead flesh, or punishing my skin against cold metal can be counted in the thousands.
Each time, I only find emptiness. My pain remains mental only.
I am incapable of purging the hurt that racks my soul.
Hopelessness wraps around me like a shroud.
It’s maddening. Feeling nothing where once I felt something.
Knowing that pain is better than feeling nothing at all.
And being incapable of administering that hurt.
Numbness never hurt this much.
In life, pain was my refuge. A reprieve from the unforgiving world around me or from the damning thoughts screaming in my mind.
The sting of a fist across my jaw. The deep ache of working muscles pushed to their limit.
A strop applied to my own back. The singe of a branding iron.
My body would awake with a sensation that matched the emptiness in my chest. Applying a physical feeling to my mental anguish gave my pain purpose, and I relied on it whenever the silence of my loneliness ever got too loud.
I once believed death would end that ache, but the OtherWorld offers no such release.
If anything, the internal pain thrums even more intently in this infinite existence.
Centuries of regret coil around me, a reminder of my failures and the story I cannot change.
What I wouldn’t give for one more chance to fail again.
Instead, I’m trapped in memories that loom like stone walls, a fire consuming everything I held dear. The crushing knowledge that I was always too late, too weak—never enough.
When the breath fades, hope vanishes with it, leaving behind an unbearable weight, an albatross around my neck, just like in one of Maddy’s favorite stories, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
“ ‘Water, water, everywhere.’ ” She was fond of quoting. “ ‘Nor any drop to drink.’ ”
In the story of Asher that no one will ever write, that line would read: Pain, pain, everywhere. Nor a chance for some relief.
The memory of Maddy and her books swirls into the sea of my past, crashing against the rocks of my mind. It hurts so much, yet I cannot feel the pain. I would do anything to have a physical sensation that mirrors the blistering hurt in my heart. Which is how I ended up here.
Completely naked. Arms bound at the wrists that glow the same cold silver as her eyes. My body is suspended at an angle that makes me vulnerable and exposed.
She stalks around me like I’m her prey, and perhaps I am.
Her movements are deliberate, calculated. Her fingers trail along the edge of a blade, her knife that pulses with divine power. The grip fits her hand perfectly, like an extension of herself.
Her eyes, those cold silver irises with their weaving golden threads, study me with an expression that’s difficult to read. Enjoyment and clinical assessment war behind her gaze.
I can see the scars from our previous encounters. They crisscross my thighs and calves—thin silver lines that form a map of my desperation. A reaper’s body doesn’t bleed. But divine power leaves a mark.
Each scar is a memory of relief. Of silence. Of wishing I could just forget.
“Just do it already,” I say, and it’s nearly a beg at this point.
The screaming in my head has been getting worse. The memories are pressing harder. The weight of my failures crushes me until I can barely function.
“Patience, reaper,” she says, her voice dripping with something between amusement and hunger. “Anticipation heightens sensation.”
She’s right. The wait is almost as good as the pain itself. Almost.
She circles me one more time, the blade catching the light. The blue glow of divine power trails through the air. When she finally moves, it’s swift and precise.
The knife slides across the exposed flesh of my thigh.
The sensation is immediate and intense. The cut doesn’t drip or weep. Instead, it opens into a thin silver line that marks my skin with the divine edge. The pain radiates outward in waves, sharp, burning, and absolutely, gloriously real.
“Mmmmmm!” I moan out, my body jerking instinctively against the shackles. The restraints hold firm, keeping me bound and vulnerable. The pain is exquisite.
“There,” she murmurs, examining her work. “That’s better already. I can see it.”
She’s right. The screaming in my head has already started to quiet. One cut, and the pressure releases slightly.
She makes another incision, this one lower on my thigh, parallel to the first. The blade glows brighter as it cuts, and the silver line of the wound stands out starkly against my skin.
“Fuck …” I groan, allowing my head to fall back as the sensations radiate through me.
Every nerve ending screams. Every muscle tenses against the agony.
And in that perfect, crystalline moment of pure sensation, everything else stops. The memories fade. The screaming in my head goes silent. The weight of centuries lifts slightly. There is nothing but the burning sting of her blade and my body’s response to it.
This is what I crave. This exact moment. Her.
Fate.
Reapers cannot cause pain. But deities can. And Fate will always deliver—for a price. A price I pay in pride and compliance.
She moves to my calf next, running the blade along the muscle. The knife glows brighter, and I watch as the silver line of the wound forms beneath the divine edge.
“You come to me more and more,” Fate observes, her tone clinical now, detached. “I’m beginning to wonder if you can survive without me.”
“I can’t,” I pant through the high of the pain, feeling the shame in the honesty of those words. I always stop caring about pride the moment she first cuts me. “Without this release, I’d be consumed by memories and find myself in The Nothing.”
“How poetic.” She traces the line of the wound on my calf with one delicate finger, examining her handiwork.
The enjoyment flickers back into her expression—she likes seeing the marks she’s made.
Likes the evidence of her power over me.
Likes knowing that these scars will remain, permanent reminders of her touch.
“It’s almost as though you have developed feelings for me. ”
“Try again,” I hiss with disdain. “The only feelings I’ve developed are for your blade.”
Her blade dances across my legs—my other thigh, the inside of my calf, the sensitive flesh behind my knee. Each cut is a meditation. Each moment of agony offers a reprieve from the screaming in my head.
By the time she finishes, my legs are covered in an intricate pattern of lines—some fresh from today, some older from previous sessions. A roadmap of my addiction.
Fate’s expression shifts as she works. The clinical assessment gives way to something darker, more primal. Her eyes follow the formation of each scar, and her breathing quickens slightly. Her enjoyment is no longer hidden; it’s written across her face in bold letters.
This is what she derives from this experience—not just the sex that follows, though that’s part of it. It’s the power. The control. The knowledge that she can make someone who is supposed to feel nothing experience everything.
“There,” she finally says, stepping back to admire her work. “Much better. You’re quieter now.”
Quieter. Yes. The screaming has ceased. The memories have faded to background noise. There’s only the burning sting across my legs and the profound relief that accompanies it.
The shackles release with a soft click.
I drop to the floor, my legs trembling slightly. For a moment, I just exist in the pain, allowing it to fill every space in my mind.
Fate moves to me, running her fingers across one of the cuts she made. The touch sends fresh waves of pain through me.
“Come,” she says, her voice low and commanding. “Payment is due upon completion of services.”
I follow her, the high of the pain still flowing through me, holding back the darkness for just a little while longer as I prepare to disassociate and fulfill my side of this arrangement.
“Nobody eats pussy like you,” she moans as her hips writhe against my face.
Before she can utter another word, I drive my tongue inside her, pressing my face firmly between her legs. My nails dig into her inner thighs, imploring her to open just a bit more for my mouth. Her hand encourages the assault by rooting itself in the back of my hair, pressing my face against her.
As my tongue dances inside her cunt, I go through the motions expected of me and moan, sending vibrations along my lips. The sensation sends her hips into overdrive. She grinds and rolls, desperately seeking every ounce of pleasure my mouth can coax from her.
I focus on the pain she just gave me, and I allow that to be at the forefront of my brain while continuing to pay my dues.
“Fuck, Ash. Don’t stop,” she responds in short gasps.
I answer with a moan placed directly over her clit as I slide a finger deep inside her slit. The penetration seems to come as a mild, if welcome, surprise. She’s wet enough to take the digit smoothly, and I curl the end of the finger to rub against the spongy softness of her G-spot.
Within seconds, her hips buck, her fingers tighten in my hair, and I feel her clench around the single finger inside her.
“That’s it, reaper. I’m going to come all over your fucking face.”