Page 110 of Mason

Not as fingers dig into my flesh, bruising, cruel, punishing.

Not as I feel the sharp sting of a slap when I turn my face away.

I won’t beg.

I won’t give him that.

The world narrows to pain, breath, the weight of him.

To the tearing, the unbearable intrusion, the sound of my own breath shuddering in and out.

The utter helplessness of it.

I was supposed to be free.

I was supposed to be done with this kind of suffering.

David is dead.

And yet, here I am.

Bound. Beaten. Used.

Again.

The bridge looms overhead, a silent witness to the crime. There are no cars passing by, no headlights to cut through the dark, no one to hear the muffled noises of my body as it screams for mercy.

He’s brutal. Unforgiving.

His hands move with practiced cruelty, untying my wrists but keeping my ankles bound. It doesn’t make sense—not at first.

Then he leans in, his breath hot and rancid against my ear, and whispers?—

“I want your hands to scratch down my back as you scream for it.”

A violent shudder rips through me, my whole body recoiling at the sick promise in his voice.

I hiss, a sharp, thunderous refusal, my body twisting away, my arms locking like steel at my sides.

I will not touch him.

His face darkens, shadowed by something even worse than rage—understanding.

He knows.

Knows I’d rather die than lay my hands on him.

And he doesn’t like that.

His head rears back, and before I can brace for it, his palm cracks against my face with enough force to snap my head to the side.

White-hot pain explodes behind my eyes.

The taste of blood floods my mouth.

My cheek throbs, skin burning, but I don’t give him the sound he wants.

Not a gasp.

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