Page 179 of Hymns of the Broken
He left me like this—stripped bare, humiliated—water streaming down my face as I try to catch my breath. My skin is a battlefield of goosebumps and raw heat, the ache in my thigh throbbing where he cut me. I don’t dare look down. I stare at the tile in front of me, focusing on the tiny cracks, counting heartbeats, trying to fold myself into invisibility.
But then I hear him coming back.
That sound—the rhythm of his footsteps—makes my heart lurch.
It’s slower now. Heavy. Measured. Every step is a promise.
I lift my gaze and see him in the doorway. Still naked. His body is slick with water and rage, muscles coiled like he’s seconds from snapping. He’s holding something this time—broad, polished wood, glistening in the low light.
A paddle.
My mouth goes dry.
I can’t move. My body is trembling too hard. My brain is screaming,’Don’t givehimthe satisfaction’, but the instinct to fearhimis winning.
He’s still furious.
“Just for that,” he sneers, voice dripping with cruel satisfaction, “I’m going to punish you again.”
The words crawl over my skin like acid.
Before I can even flinch, he’s on me. Grabbing and spinning me. My cheek and chest slam against the shower wall, the cold tile biting into my overheated skin. My chains rattle above me, pulling painfully at my wrists.
His lips press against my shoulder—a mockery of tenderness, the faintest brush of warmth before he pulls back. I can’t see him now. I can only feel him behind me. I can feel his breath, steady and deliberate, and the tension building in the air like the moment before lightning strikes.
I hold my breath.
Crack.
The first hit lands across my ass, sharp and merciless. A white-hot burst of pain sears through me and rips a scream from my throat. My body jerks against the chains, desperate to get away, but I’m trapped. Caught. Helpless.
Before Ican recover, the second blow lands—lower, slicing pain across the curve of my thigh.
The third is harder, in the same spot, the sting radiating outward like fire under my skin.
I cry out again, tears spilling down my cheeks, mixing with the shower water. Every nerve in my body lights up—pain, fear, humiliation all tangled into one raw, unbearable thing.
And then I hear him. Blake. Groaning behind me and loving every second.
“Your ass will be black and blue whenI’m done,” he says, voice thick with sick satisfaction. “Every time you sit, you’ll feel me.”
No.I scream it in my head. You’ll never own me, not in that way.
Then he unleashes five rapid-fire blows—each one sharper, harder, crueler than the last. The sound echoes—wood against skin, my cries swallowed by the hiss of the shower and the pounding in my ears.
I’m shaking so hard I can barely stand, my knees threatening to give out. I want to beghimto stop, but my voice won’t come out. I’m too close to breaking. Too close to collapsing into a sobbing, empty mess.
And that’s when he spins me again.
I’m facing him now—my back pressed against the icy tile, my body trembling, raw, and marked red. I feel completely exposed under his gaze, every bruise, every cut a sick trophy for him to admire.
He strokes himself, water dripping off the sharp lines of his jaw, the paddle still clutched in his other hand.
“You are so pretty red for me… and the blood—fuck, Sawyer, look at it. I might have to cut you a few more times, baby girl. Watching it run down your legs…” His grin turns feral. “It’s making me harder than ever.”
I want to scream. I want to disappear. I want to fight, but my body is shaking too violently to move.
Pain hums through every nerve, mixing with a cold, gnawing hatred that burns just as sharp as the paddle. I cling to it like a lifeline—the hate, the fury. It’s all I have left that’s mine.
