Page 31 of The Mourning Throne
“I’m numb,” Ollie whispered. “I can’t feel my hands—”
“Get. Out.”
Not cruel. Not even angry.
Just instructional.
Like a teacher with all the patience in the world for the dumbest kid in the room.
Ollie shifted forward, winced.
The moment his knees hit the ground, he whimpered. However Morgan had tied those sheets looked even more painful than Lex had originally thought—the struggle made them tighten. Ollie’s fingers splayed out, shoulders shaking.
Lex watched Ollie jerk forward, then freeze—like his spine had locked up mid-spasm.
Back arched. Head down.
Was he trying not to scream?
And what the hell did that even accomplish?
Every movement was the wrong one… like watching someone walk themselves into a trap theyalready knewwas there.
And god—it was kind of beautiful.
This was something uniquely Morgan.
The kind of torment that made the victim hurt themselvesbetterthan anyone else could.
Props.
Morgan walked forward, crouched again.
“Simon said get out.”
“I’m trying,” Ollie whispered, those huge tears coming faster. “Please, I’m trying—”
He twisted sideways this time, trying to get closer to the knife. There was resistance. Then something popped.
The sound of pain came after.
A choked, half-swallowed cry that wasn’t a sob but wasn’tnotone either.
Lex zoomed in.
There was a flush blooming across Ollie’s neck. Not embarrassment. Not yet. But the edge of it. The shame of not being good enough, fast enough, useful enough to even obey a simple fucking command.
One elbow scraped forward, inching toward the knife.
His whole body bowed with the effort. Shoulders trembling, bones stiff with tension. His fingers twitched on the tile—searching.
The knife sat less than a breath away. Maybe an inch. Maybe less.
Ollie stretched.
The sheets around his wrists pulled tighter, cruel and unrelenting.
He screamed.
