Page 164 of Hymns of the Broken
He stays close—too close—his masked face hovering over mine, shadow and silver filling my vision. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move away.
I can feel his gaze moving over every inch of me—my wrists red and raw against the cuffs, my legs pulled taut by the chains, the way my chest rises and falls too fast with every panicked breath. I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can still feel him drinking me in, hungry, possessive, patient.
Then he leans in, so close I can feel the chill of the mask graze my skin. His breath stirs the hair at my ear.
He doesn’t speak.
Hesniffsme—slow, deliberate, right at the curve of my neck. The sound he makes—almost a groan, barely a sound—makes my skin crawl. It’s not lust, exactly. It’s something darker. Ownership. Hunger.
My rage flashes. Before I can stop myself, I spit—hard, right on the cold metal ofhismask.
He freezes, then slowly leans back. For a split second, the mask stares at me—and then his shoulders shake, not with anger.
He’s laughing.
A silent, twisted laugh, like my defiance is the best thing he’s ever tasted.
And thenI see it—a glint, silver and sharp in the half-light.
A knife, long and thin, flashed in his hand.
Oh, fuck, Sawyer. Why couldn’t you stay quiet? Why did you have to spit on him?
He points the knife at me, the blade gleaming, steady and unhurried. The mask tips, and I know—without a word—that my act of rebellion just changed everything.
I press back against the mattress, shaking, breath coming in frantic bursts. My voice is a whisper. “Please—don’t—”
He keeps laughing silently, the knife following every panicked twitch I make. There’s nothing I can do but pray my stubbornness hasn’t cost me everything.
He doesn’t speak. He lowers the knife; the blade glinting in the thin light, and rests the icy edge against my bare thigh. My breath stutters, the chill of metal burning deeper than any bruise.
He drags the knife down, leaving a cold trail from the top of my thigh to my ankle. He lingers there, blade pressing just enough to make my skin burn, then starts the agonizing crawl back up. My whole body is trembling, muscles twitching as I try not to flinch or cry out. The mask never moves, but I know he’s watching every shiver.
He traces the knife up—over my knee, along the curve of my thigh, to the hem of Jasper’s hoodie. He hesitates, and I can feel the shift in him—his whole body going tense, rage flaring up like a fire.
Suddenly, he’s frantic. The knife hacks and pulls, yanking the fabric, slicing up the thick cotton like it’s paper. I scream as I hear tearing, the metallic zip of the blade through Jasper’s scent, my safety, the last scrap of him I had left. He rips the hoodie from my body, tossing the shredded pieces aside.
Now I’m left in nothing but my tank top and the sleep shorts I put on what feels like a lifetime ago, back when the world was normal, back when I still had hope.
I’m exposed, freezing, every inch of skin tingling from fear and the rush of cold air. He stands over me, chest rising and falling, the mask unreadable but his intent clear—this is about power, humiliation, erasing anything that isn’this.
Tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I stare up at him, silent, daring him to do his worst, even as I pray for mercy.
I stare him down, and he shakes his head. I can see from his body language that he’s still raging. He rushes out the door, slamming it on his way out.
And I’m left alone again.
I count the seconds to keep my mind from fracturing, from slipping into panic.
JASPER
I haven’t slept. None of us has. Every hour withoutherfeels like it’s grinding my bones to dust.
It’s just past dawn now—gray light leaking through the living room windows, dust motes spinning in the tired air. Riot sits hunched over the kitchen table, fingers twitching restlessly against his coffee mug. Ash and Jace are slumped nearby, eyes red and distant. Macee’s passed out on the couch, hugging Sawyer’s favorite hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping her alive.
Micah’s still at his laptop, headphones on, chasing leads I’m believing aren’t even real. He hasn’t looked away from the screen in hours, and I’m afraid that if I ask him for an update, he might finally snap.
Silas paces the front hall, phone pressed to his ear as he barks at some detective. The entire house is waiting—everyone holding their breath, ready to explode.
