Page 7 of Scars Run Deep

I gritted my teeth, fighting not to cry out.

He did it again and again and again.

Everything fell away and the agony dragged me under, a haze engulfing me, desperation taking hold because I couldn’t see an end in sight.

It just went on and on and fucking on.

Wounds being worsened, blood dripping down my back, over my pants, sweat pouring off me, and my muscles aching from the extreme tension the assault was causing. My hands were clenching in the cuffs so tightly that it felt like my bones were close to cracking under the pressure.

But through it all, I didn’t make a sound.

And then it suddenly stopped.

“Nicely done,” he said, his footsteps moving away. “A pity you were cheating, though.”

“W-what?” I rasped, choking as the word spilled from my lips, my mouth so dry.

“You were employing a mental technique so you weren’t really here in the moment enduring and taking your punishment.”

“That’s… no.”

He was suddenly there removing the cuffs from my wrists and ankles.

He didn’t bother to support my weight through it and I collapsed onto the hard concrete.

As I fought to push up onto my hands and knees, I managed a look over my shoulder, and that was when I saw something even worse than what had already been done to me.

My father stood there aiming a Glock at me.

“What… what are… you… doing?”

“You just challenged me with that bullshit technique.”

“I… didn’t… no.”

“You weren’t taking those lashes properly, son. I can’t have that. More weakness.” He shifted his weight. “Let’s see you try to avoid this pain.”

Fuck. No. No. No.

I turned back and staggered, trying to get to my feet.

I’d only just managed it when the shocking sound of the gun going off tore through the room.

I screamed as a bullet drove into my upper back.

I went down on my front, my face smashing into the concrete in the process.

It was nothing compared to the agony ripping me apart from the inside out, though.

The door creaked open and I heard him order somebody, “Get him cleaned up.”

My father’s footsteps retreated as another set neared me.

I flinched as a hand touched my shoulder, then frowned when the contact was gentle, not inflicting pain.

I craned my neck as they crouched down beside me, to see Aaron “Scourge” Wakefield, one of the Infidels’ top enforcers, looking at me with a grimace as he took in the state of me.

“We’ll fix this,” he told me. “I swear it to you. This won’t happen again.”

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