Page 39 of Ma Petite Mort
I can’t wait to see what he does next.
chapter ten
bjorn
The wooden horse waits.
Four legs. Iron bolts. A spine carved sharp enough to split you open just from sitting wrong. And that’s the point—there’s no right way to sit on Brúnhildr. She was made for pain. Built for sacrifice.
They called it a torture device once. Way back in the old books—used on traitors, witches, thieves. You’d be stripped down, hoisted up, legs spread wide, dropped onto the blade of wood until the pain taught you something about yourself. Or broke you trying.
We built ours by hand.
Sanded the beam until it gleamed. Sharpened the ridge to a cruel point. Stained the wood in blood and ash until the grain turned dark as sin. Brúnhildr, Johnny named her—said she reminded him of a war maiden, proud and punishing. I liked that. She doesn’t just punish. She remembers.
And tonight, she’s hungry.
A girl kneels beside the base, branded black and eager. Leather cinched at her waist, her thighs already trembling. Her eyes flick up to me like I’m a god about to hand her a revelation.
I step closer, running a hand along the peak.
“She won’t bite,” I murmur, voice low. “Not unless you ask nice.”
The girl moans.
Johnny circles her like a vulture, laughing, already wrapping the rope that’ll keep her tied down once she’s up. Alaska watches, crouched low, eyes gleaming through the mess of chains around her neck.
We don’t have to speak to know how this goes. Lux is in the crowd, Indie beside him, watching the setup with sharp, approving eyes. The firelight reflects off the lacquered beam, and the crowd presses in.
They know what this is.
They came for it.
I look at the girl again—shaking, breathless, dripping with anticipation. And gods help me, I love this part.
Brúnhildr always draws blood.
And that blood? It’s always an offering.
She’s stripped bare. Ankles bound. Wrists cuffed behind her back. Runes streak her thighs in smudged red, her breasts raw and welted—evidence of Indie’s whip, and the fun she clearly had breaking her in.
“You begged for this,” I growl, circling her like a predator. “So you’ll take it. With pride. With pain.”
Her head bobs. She’s crying. Smiling. Wet.
“Please. Hurt me.”
Johnny giggles from the far side of the horse, licking red off his thumb. He’s painted like sin, blood smeared across his lips like lipstick.
“Gooooood little slut,” he sings, eyes wild. “Tell Daddy Johnny what a depraved little doll you are.”
“I’m nothing,” she gasps. “Just a thing. A toy for the gods.”
“Atta girl,” Lux says coolly, stepping behind her. “Now climb.”
She obeys.
Shaking. Moaning. She lowers herself onto the wooden peak, legs split wide, the sharpened edge sinking into the soft place between them. Her scream rips through the tent like a hymn. Her body spasms. Blood trickles.
