Page 82 of Map of Pain
So he told it again. And again. And again. Each time, Shaw’s hands became bolder, more invasive, until Nick couldn’t tell where the memory ended and the present began.
The fifth time, Nick’s voicewasbarely a whisper, his throat raw from crying.“Please don’t make me say it again.”
Shaw’s voice seemed to blend with another, older voice, honey-sweet and poisonous.“You’re going to be a good boy and tell me again.”
The sound of a belt buckle unfastening.
And as Nick repeated the story one more time, he could feel it—the phantom sensations of Gianmarco’s hands overlaying Shaw’s very real ones. Shaw’s voice drifted in and out of the memory like smoke, his hands mapping territory thathadalready been claimed and broken.
“Where did his hands go? Here? What about here?”Shaw whispered, and Nick couldn’t tell anymore if itwasmemory or reality, past violation or present abuse.
Nick’s consciousness, observing but not separate, couldn’t make sense of whatwashappening. Thememorieswerebleeding together, past and present and pain all mixing into a litany of hurt that made no sense.
Jingle.
Flash. Still frame. Memory cards being shuffled rapidly.
Gianmarco above him, but the sheets felt wrong—too scratchy, too rough. Gianmarco never used rough sheets. And his face hurt, swollen and throbbing, but Gianmarcohadalways been careful with his face, that itwastoo pretty to damage. Why could he taste blood? Why did his jaw feel like it might be dislocated?
“It hurts,”he heard himself saying, but the voice hewasaddressing seemed to shift mid-word.“Shaw, it hurts, please—”
But that didn’t make sense because hewaslooking at Gianmarco,wasn’the? Except the hands on him felt different, rougher, and therewaslaughter that Gianmarco never made—cruel and mocking instead of pleased.
Flash.
Different hands completely. Different laughter. A boot grinding into his skull, pressing his face into gravel that cut his cheek. Blood filling his mouth from where his teethhadgonethrough his tongue.
Owen’s voice from above, breathless with exertion,“Nicholas, be a good boy and stop being such a fucking menace.”
Nick could taste dirt and blood and shame, could feel zip ties cutting into his wrists behind his back as Owen’s weight settled on him.
”—should have let me die, it’d be better than—”
Flash.
Owen and Shaw arguing while Nick sat on the ground, his nose bleeding steadily, one eye swollen shut, naked and shivering despite the heat. Bruises covered his ribs, his back, his thighs. Shame burned in his chest like acid.
“Why are you doing this?”Nick heard himself ask.“Iwasgood. I followed all the orders. I killed who you told me to kill.”
Shaw knelt down, and therewassomething that might have been sadness in his eyes. But behind it, something else. Something hungry and terrible that made Nick want to crawl away.
“This isn’t punishment, my sweet boy,”Shaw said, reaching out to touch Nick’s battered face with mock tenderness.“You’re helping us. It’s so hard to find time to date when you’re saving humanity. This is a public service.”
His thumb pressed into the bruise around Nick’s eye, and Nick couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped.
More jingling. More hands holding him down. More pain that blended together until he couldn’t tell one assault from another. Owen whispering poison in his ear while his weight pressed Nick into the concrete,“I always knew youwerepathetic. I just never imaginedyou’dend up being such a good little whore.”
Nick tried to fight, scratched and clawed and bit, but there were always more hands, always more weight, always the sound of belt buckles and mocking laughter and the phrase that made his resistance crumble:“Be a good boy.”
Flash. Flash. Flash.
“Focus,”a new voice said in his head, gentle but urgent.“Focus. Too far back. No.”
The memories shifted again, and this time Nick saw something thathadalways seemed out of reach, locked away behind walls hehadn’tknownexisted.
A different room. Not Gianmarco’s penthouse, not a Society facility. Somewhere neutral, businesslike. Shawwasthere, but sowassomeone else—a man in an expensive suit with kind eyes and a predator’s smile.
“I think we can find a mutually beneficial situation, Mr. Shaw,”the strangerwassaying, his voice carrying a thick Southern accent.“One that gets me what I want and gets you yours.”
