Page 57 of Map of Pain
“What did you do to him?”
No…Caleb, you can’t be here, not now.
His vision blurred and suddenly hewasstumbling back, his hand throbbing, the knuckles on his fists sore, his pants caught around his ankles. In Gianmarco’s room…
No.
Gianmarco touched his jaw, a smile spreading across his features. Not his angry smile—it was delight.
“Caleb, stay with your brother. I need to speak with Luka privately.”
I want to be back with Luka. Luka is safe.
Then the world blurred as Nick crashed into a dresser, pain exploding through his ribs. Before he could recover, Gianmarcowason him, flipping him onto his stomach, knee pressing into the small of his back.
He gripped Nick’s hair, yanking his head back at a painful angle.“I wonder what will sound better, when you scream my name or moan it.”
“Nick, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry about everything. Please come back,”Caleb’s hushed whisper echoed.
I’m trying.
“Stay with me, kitten,”Gianmarco huffed into his ear, his weight pressed against Nick’s body, his hand pressed so hard against Nick’s skull hewassure it would shatter.
He meant to say no, but pain ripped through him as Gianmarco began his calculated destruction. He couldn’t breathe. Hewasgoing to die from this. Hehopedhe would die from this.
“Nick? Nick?”Oh no, he sounds scared.
I need to get out of here.
“Stay with me,”Gianmarco commanded, fingers digging into Nick’s ribs, his pace changing.“Say my name again, kitten.”
“He’s not breathing,”Caleb’s voice cracked.“Luka, what do I do? He’s not breathing!”
The flooring beneath him shifted, the texture hard, cheap linoleum. He could hear feet moving. But theywereso far.
Hewason something soft. Too soft. The bed. Nick sobbed, unable to form words.
“Such a good boy,”Gianmarco panted against his neck.
He reached for something on the nightstand—the familiar leather case containing his carving tools. Nickwastoo broken to resist as Gianmarco selected a thin, sharp blade.
Music drifted into his consciousness as Gianmarco continued to speak, drowning out vile words Nickwassure he remembered.
I know that tune.
The first cutwasshallow, precise—the letter ‘G’ appearing in a thin line of red across Nick’s inner forearm.
“Repeat after me,”Gianmarco instructed softly.“I’m a good boy.”
Nick’s lips moved without thought, his voice hollow and distant.“I’m a good boy.”
The music got louder. And something else.
“Again,”Gianmarco commanded, carving the letter ‘O’.
Whistling?
“I’m a good boy,”Nick whispered, tears falling onto the fresh cuts.
