“No love, this is not about pain,” I say, brushing her arm with my fingers while my eyes follow the disaster I set on her skin, “It’s dehumanization. It’s loneliness.”
The subtle tremor that runs through her body tells me everything I need to know. She doesn’t know. For the first time, she is truly lost.
“This is what it feels like to lose the last person who could’ve cared,” I whisper. “Now you have nobody. Not me. Not Alex. Not even your little cat. You’re alone in this, and nobody will save you.”
I let the words hang in the air long enough to penetrate that facade.
“Survive.”
And then, on cue, the guards entered, dressed in black uniforms, faces blank, hands already reaching for restraints and tools I hadn’t used yet.
Her head turns from one to the other, tracking them.
“Wait—”
But I am already walking away, reaching for the door.
“Little fucker,” she screams after me, “Where do you think you’re going? You are a dead man, Azrael, dead. The moment I’m done here, you’re dead!”
I pause, turning my face to her.
“I’ll see you in an hour.” To the guards, “No safe word. You’re not killing her, you’re not fucking her. You’re destroying her.”
And with that, I leave her behind.
They didn’t break her. At least not in the way I expected.
When I get back into the room, she is still conscious, propped against the wall like a doll someone tried to discard but couldn’t quite destroy. One eye is swollen and the edge of her lip split. Her dress barely holds its shape, the fabric soaked with sweat, wine, and blood.
But she hadn’t screamed.
She cried. I can see it in the dried marks staining her cheeks, and the lashes clumped together. But there are no fresh tears. Just silence.
Rule 4: Bleeding, begging, crying or screaming are not reasons to stop.
Her hands are shaking when I reach down and help her stand, but her spine stays straight. Her gaze finds mine and she doesn’t flinch. That is new.
She doesn’t speak when I carry her out bridal style and doesn’t ask where we are going or if there is anything else planned for tonight. She just leans into the seat belt like it is the only thing keeping her from unraveling.
At home, I remove the remaining pieces of her dress carefully. The zipper gets caught halfway, trembling under my fingers. Her skin, beneath it, tells its own story. Raw in places. Bruised in others. A living canvas of everything I did.
She winces once when I peel the dress from her side, but no words follow. She doesn’t flinch away from my hand. Only leans forward enough to let me keep going. And I do just that, gently, like she could break any second now.
The little ember doesn’t need to tell me where it hurts, I know already. I left the marks myself. We both had. And now, I’ll be the one to wash them clean.
I turn on the water in the tub, and once it accumulates, I place her carefully in, letting her body sink in until only her collarbone shows above the waterline.
I watch her for a minute before I go to the kitchen and pour two glasses of wine, but when I return with them to the bathroom, she refuses hers.
“I thought you liked wine,” I whisper, like I’m talking to a child that needs to be appeased.
She replies with a hoarse voice, “I don’t want to smell wine today,” then drops her eyes to where her feet touch the side of the bathtub, “There’s scotch in the cabinet. Back left.”
I place the glasses on the vanity and go to the kitchen to bring the much-needed scotch. From what I’ve gathered, Victoria is not an alcoholic, but she drinks it to soften the edges, which is exactly what she needs right now.
When I return, she takes the glass from my hand and, for the first time in the past hour, I see a hint of calmness and excitement in her eyes, but it disappears just as quickly. I continue washing her hair and her body carefully, paying attention to every scratch and bruise on her skin.
Once I am pleased with the result, I pick her up and carry her to bed, laying her down and pulling the blanket over her. She doesn’t protest. In fact, she is so immobile you could say the life had left her body. My job for tonight is done, she is broken now.