THAT. MOTHER. FUCKER.
This…this is low. Even for that twisted mind of his.
I woke up in pain this morning. Physical pain. Yesterday, Azrael tried his best to torture me, and the repercussions are now visible on my skin.
I look exactly how I feel. One eye is swollen, painted by streaks of unwashed mascara like the morning-after makeup of a discount prostitute, my bottom lip is split, and traces of blood are still visible on my face. Whatever he washed off my face last night was not it. Does this man even know how important skincare is? And that’s just my face.
On my body, red lines trace my ribs where his scalpel cut too deep. I still can’t fully feel my arms from the nail he’d stabbed into my back, and what even was the purpose of those syringes? It just felt like he’d tried too hard to the point that it had gotten ridiculous.Mental note, teach him how to torture people.
And the worst part? He didn’t even do me the honor of finishing the fucking job.
Fucking coward.
If this was a test, he should’ve been the one holding the pen. Instead, he’d outsourced it to three thick-skulled, empty-brained gorillas. I’d actually started to pity them mid-process. They tried their best—really, they did. Screamed in my face. Yanked at the chains. “Cry, princess,” one of them had grunted.
Cry, my ass.
They poured wine on my face. Wine. My wine! The audacity.
I deal with men like that all the time, so why would he think thatthatwould be enough to break me?But he doesn’t know that, Victoria. You never told him what you do.Well, true. Even though his physical torture had been lacking, the mental torture was even worse.
Loneliness.
I’m used to being alone, have been for fifteen years, ever since I escaped hell. It’s not like I would expect anyone to save me.
But you don’t expect him to save you from himself, do you?
“Fuck off,” I tell that stupid voice in my head. I don’t need to be judged by my own brain.
Azrael will suffer once I get my hands on him; I’ll split his guts open, rearrange them like a fucked-up jigsaw, tie him up the same way he did me, and make him beg for mercy.
No, dear Professor, what happened last night was a one-time thing.
He’ll either hold up his part of the deal as he should, or I’ll not control myself anymore and just give into the bloodlust. And he seems to have the perfect body formytype of torturing sessions.
Not to mention, I’d had to fake weakness with everything I had after we left that place. The fragile girl act, barely holding on, trembling with every move. Oh, please. I’ve walked through worse for breakfast. But I’d played it like the Academy was watching.
And the pièce de résistance? “I don’t want to smell wine today.”
Does he really believe I’m that weak? Why try so hard to torture my body with every existing utensil if that’s the case?
Now, why did Ihaveto do it? Easy. He never wants to drink with me. I even bought his stupid whiskey, thinking maybe—maybe—I’ll get to watch him unravel in real time for once, not just through drunk texting. But no, he couldn’t even give me that.
Well, guess what, Professor?
You’ll drink it, and you’ll like it, hopefully before I lose my patience.
Sunday. Again.
At 7 a.m. sharp, Alex gets the green light. And every fucking week, he uses it.
Today, he’s on time, as always.
His voice comes through like he hasn’t slept in two days.
“We’ve got three: a state-requested job in DC, a cleanup in Toronto, and a weird one out of Warsaw—private client, high pay, no paper trail.”
I groan. “Don’t tell me it’s the same fucking Toronto guy.”