Chapter 14
I’m shaking, the cold steel of the gun digging into my palm, my finger white-knuckled against the trigger.
I stare at him—or rather, I stare at that fucking mask.
I can’t see his eyes, but I can feel them.
He’s hunting me even while he’s standing still, his presence like a heavy shroud over the room.
"Want me to count for you, love?" he asks, his voice a low, dangerous purr.
I don't say a word. I can't. My throat is tight, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I want to do it. I want to blow a hole right through his skull and end this fucking nightmare.
"Five," he begins, his tone almost bored, as if my hesitation is the most predictable thing in the world.
"Four."
My finger twitches. Do it, you coward. Just fucking pull it.
"Three."
I close my eyes for a split second, seeing the blood from the carnival, the headless corpse, the madness of this man.
"Two."
I’m frozen. I’m a fucking statue. I can’t do it. I can’t kill him, or maybe I’m just too terrified of what happens if I miss.
"One."
The moment the word leaves his lips, his hand moves with a speed that makes my head spin.
Before I can even gasp, he wrenches the gun from my grip.
He doesn't just take it; he hurls it across the room with a violent flick of his wrist. The weapon clatters loudly against the far wall, sliding across the hardwood, far out of my reach.
I start to scramble back, but he’s already on me. His hands grip the bodice of my dress—this heavy, low-necked Victorian piece of shit that I thought was protecting me. It feels like armor until his muscles flex, and with a guttural sound of effort, he simply tears it.
The sound of ripping fabric screams in the quiet room. He doesn't bother with buttons or laces; he just shreds the heavy cloth, tearing it open until the dress is loose and useless. He rips it off my body in one brutal motion and flings it somewhere into the shadows of the room.
I gasp, the cool air hitting my skin, but he doesn't give me a second to breathe. He grabs me by the waist, his grip bruising, and hauls me toward the center of the bed. I’m sliding across the purple velvet, my breath coming in jagged sobs.
He reaches around, unhooking my bra with a rough tug and tossing it away like trash.
Then, I hear a mechanical click.
From the ornate ebony headboard, two heavy metal hand restraints snap forward. Before I can fight him, he seizes my first wrist, slamming it into the cuff. Snap. Then the second. Snap.
I scream, twisting my body, pulling my arms back with everything I have, but the chains are short and the locks are absolute. I’m pinned, splayed open on the velvet, my arms stretched above my head.
He leaves the mask on my face. I’m left half-blind, shivering in nothing but my underwear and that piece of fabric, while he remains fully dressed—his long black coat, his boots, his fucking mask. He looks like a god of death hovering over a sacrifice.
He moves slowly, sliding his body between my legs, his weight pressing me deep into the mattress.
"We had a deal, Ophelia," he whispers, his voice vibrating through my chest. "You didn't shoot me. Now, I’m going to make you scream my name until your throat is raw."
He doesn't hesitate. He reaches down and rips my underwear clean off my body. The suddenness of it makes me jump, my hips arching involuntarily. My skin prickles, every nerve ending firing at once. This is the first time I’ve been truly, completely naked in front of him, and the vulnerability is suffocating.
I watch him through the slits of my mask as he pulls away for a moment, stepping toward the nightstand. He opens the drawer and pulls out a collection of items that make my stomach flip. He lays them out on the purple velvet beside my hip.
There’s a set of heavy leather straps, a pair of weighted steel clamps with adjustable screws, and a long, slender glass wand that catches the dim light, looking cold and clinical. There's also a vibrating plug made of polished black silicone, designed to stretch and fill.
He hovers over me again, his shadow swallowing me whole. He leans in, his lips brushing against my ear, while his large palms slide up to my breasts. He squeezes them hard, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, claiming them.
"You're mine, you little cracked doll," he growls, his voice dark and possessive. "Every inch of this skin, every drop of blood in your veins... it all belongs to me. I’m going to break you until there’s nothing left but the part of you that craves me."
"Please..." I whisper, turning my head away, my voice trembling.
He doesn't stop. He begins to run his hands over my body, caressing me with a terrifying slowness.
He traces the curve of my waist, the line of my thighs, feeling every inch of my skin.
Despite the terror, my body betrays me; I shiver, my back arching, leaning into his touch because it's the only thing keeping me grounded in this madness.
"I'm going to fuck you so hard," he murmurs, his breath hot against my neck, "that the whole of Whitby will hear you screaming. They'll know exactly who you belong to."
I gasp as his fingers find my nipples. He doesn't just touch them; he twists them, his grip tight and demanding. He tugs and pulls at the sensitive peaks, sending jolts of sharp, electric pleasure and pain straight to my core, leaving me sobbing and shaking beneath him. They harden on his touch.
A sharp, sudden pinch makes me gasp, the air catching in my throat. I look down, my chest heaving, and see them—heavy steel clamps biting deep into my left nipple, then my right. A cold, thin chain connects the two, pulling my breasts together, forcing them to stand out, exposed and vulnerable.
The pain is immediate, a searing, focused heat that radiates through my chest, but as his finger slowly circles the edge of the metal, tracing the swollen, pinched skin, the pain begins to blur.
It transforms into something electric, a humming tension that makes my breathing shift from panicked sobs to shallow, needy hitches.
I feel stretched, exposed, and utterly at his mercy.
Suddenly, his hand slides down, his palm rough against my inner thigh.
He doesn't gently nudge my legs apart; he wrenches them open with an aggressive, possessive force that leaves me splayed wide, my modesty completely gone.
His other hand finds my clit, his finger grazing the hypersensitive nub with a precision that makes my entire body jolt.
"Fucking hell, look at you," he growls, his voice a dark vibration. "Such a pretty little clit. And your pussy... so shaved, so smooth. Like a fucking doll."
He slides a finger inside me. I gasp, my hips bucking against the mattress. I’m so tight he practically has to force his way in, the friction sending a shockwave of pressure through my pelvis.
"Tight as a drum," he murmurs, a cruel smirk evident in his tone. "A virgin. I can't fucking believe it. I can't wait to see how this sweet pussy looks after I spend the whole night fucking that innocence right out of you."
He withdraws his finger with a wet pop, and I feel the sudden rush of my own arousal. I’m dripping, my thighs slick with a heat I can't control, my body betraying every ounce of my fear.
He looks up at me through the mask, his eyes predatory.
Without warning, he reaches up and adjusts the clamps.
They squeeze—hard. I scream, a raw, piercing sound that echoes in the room, my back arching off the bed.
Just as the pain becomes unbearable, he releases the tension, leaving my nipples throbbing and hypersensitive.
Then, he goes back to my clit.
At first, it’s agonizingly slow. He just brushes the tip of his finger against me, a ghost of a touch that makes me whimper, my body trembling with the anticipation.
He teases me, circling the head of my clit, barely touching it, driving me absolutely mental.
I moan, a low, guttural sound I don't recognize as my own, my hips beginning to grind instinctively against his hand.
Then, the pace shifts. He starts rubbing harder, using a firm, rhythmic pressure, his finger sliding through my own juices.
He uses a twisting motion, a relentless friction that builds a fire in my gut.
I’ve never felt this—this overwhelming, crashing wave of sensation.
It’s too much. My mind is fracturing, the pleasure becoming a form of torture.
I cry out, my voice breaking. I try to move my hands to push him away, to stop the onslaught, but the cuffs jerk me back, the chains rattling violently.
I try to clamp my legs shut, to hide from the intensity, but he slams his other hand onto my thigh, pinning me open, forcing me to endure every second of it.
He locks eyes with me through the masks, his gaze commanding. "Come for me, Ophelia. Fucking come for me now!"
I scream, my vision blurring as a violent orgasm rips through me. I shake uncontrollably, my internal muscles clamping down on his fingers in rhythmic spasms as I come, the pleasure so intense it feels like I'm dying.
I collapse back into the velvet, gasping for air, my lungs burning. He slowly pulls his fingers away, and I watch in a daze as he lifts his hand to the edge of his mask, licking his fingers clean with a slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue.
"Tastes like heaven," he whispers. "Sweet, terrified heaven."
I barely have time to catch my breath before I hear a click.
I look up and my heart stops. The ceiling has shifted; it's now a massive, polished mirror.
I see myself—naked, masked, legs spread wide, necklace still on my neck, my nipples a deep, angry pink under the steel clamps.
I look like a piece of meat, a broken thing.
Panic surges, a cold wave of nausea hitting me as I stare at my own reflection. But before I can spiral, he presses a black wand vibrator directly against my clit.
I scream in surprise, the sudden, high-frequency vibration rattling my entire pelvis.