Page 72 of Deviant

His voice sends the fear of God into me. I gasp, whimpering, as my eyes immediately find his across the room.

He’s sat in an armchair, looking like he’s been there for some time. As he gets up and moves towards me, I shrink back, but my body still won’t obey me. My left leg feels like it’s too heavy, and my shoulder joints are so painful every slight movement is torture.

My breath hitches, my heart thumps in my chest as he closes the distance and leans right over me. With one hand, he slaps me hard across the cheek.

“Only I get to decide when this ends,” he says. “Not you. Your life belongs to me. Do you understand?”

I want to reply, to say something clever, or defiant even, but my words seem to get lost on my tongue and it’s all I can do to hold his gaze. So much disappointment swirls inside me because I’m still alive, still here, still stuck in this horrific situation.

He grips my face, tightening his fingers around my jaw as he silently demands an answer.

Through my puckered lips I whisper the word ‘yes,’ but I hate myself for that syllable. I hate myself for the brief moment of submission.

With a small smirk, he drops his hold, but he stays where he is, towering over me.

Something on my chest burns. I can feel the way my skin protests.

He branded me.

God, that happened, too. Right before I fled, right before I threw myself out of that window.

My anger flares, perhaps my stupidity does too. I clench my fists, knowing that he’s going to make me pay for this, but I don’t care, even now, even after everything he’s done, I’m not broken, at least not entirely and I need him to know it.

“I hate you.” I hiss.

His lips curl. Like always, I wonder if those words are music to his ears. That he enjoys my hate as much as he enjoys abusing my body.

“I would rather die than let you touch me again and I will do it, I will kill myself.”

He tuts, grabbing my jaw once more. “Unfortunately for you, you don’t get to make those decisions. You’re my pet, my plaything. You’ll live as long as I decide, you’ll endure…”

Whatever words of torment he says seem to fade as my mind starts to drift. It doesn’t really matter what he says anyway, this all remains the same. I am his plaything, his pet, I’ll endure whatever he does to me because there are no other options available, no escape to be had.

He loosens his grip, moving to the end of the bed. “You’re to stay in this room, there’s a bathroom beyond that door you can use. If you take one step outside, you’ll be punished, do you hear me?”

Punished more than I have been? Tortured more than he’s done already? His threats feel almost empty, only, I know they’re not. I don’t doubt Magnus has far more creative ways of hurting me, he’s just waiting for the opportunity.

I sink back into the pillows, grateful at least for this tiny improvement in my situation.

When he leaves me to it, I let out a low breath. I half expected him to drag me back down to the basement, to that same dark prison he’s kept me in, and I can’t seem to understand why I am here, what the purpose of this is? Is this a new game, give me a tiny glimmer of hope, and then snatch it away? Or does he feel guilty? Has my suicide attempt actually affected him?

No, it can’t be. The man has no conscience. I know that much.

My eyes dart about the room, taking in the polished furniture, the marble fireplace, the ridiculously ornate mirror, just the sheer luxury of the space. It’s so different from the other bedroom he took me too. I guessed most of his house would be like this,grand, opulent, but it still surprises me that I’ve not been put in the equivalent of the servants’ quarters. Stored away somewhere discreet until I’m recovered enough to return to my basement hell once more.

As I try to sit up, my arms protest, my leg refuses to cooperate, but I’m busting for a wee. My bladder feels so full that I might actually lose all control of it, and I doubt Magnus will be pleased to come back and find that I’ve pissed all over the bed.

With all the strength I have, I swing my legs around and push off the mattress, but within seconds the floor comes hurtling towards me and I faceplant into the softest, plushest carpet I have ever encountered.

White hot pain shoots up my leg, I let out a defeated cry but I drag myself up, practically crawl across the room to where the bathroom is and, with the little strength I have left, I manage to finally clamber onto the toilet and mercifully relieve myself.

I guess the doctors must have fixed me up down there too because I can feel the stitches, I can feel the way all those awful tears are now healing inside me.

I don’t know how long I’ve been out, but it’s clear that it’s been a few days. Did Magnus keep me sedated all that time? That thought is not comforting in the slightest.

Once I’m done peeing, I realise I have to make it the whole way back and right now, that feels as unachievable as climbing a mountain. Baby steps. That’s all I need. One step, then another…

I freeze as my eyes catch sight of myself in the mirror. It’s the first time I’ve seen my reflection since they took me, sincehetook me. My skin is so pale, I have great dark circles under my eyes and my left one is still slightly swollen from where I was punched. You can see I’ve been starved. My breasts are bruised from how they were bound up but my nipples look normal, they don’t look like they’re going to drop off anymore. My hair, my beautiful hair isgone, and though it’s started to grow back, my scalp is still clearly visible under the tuffs of red that seems to have sprouted.

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