Page 173 of Hymns of the Broken
I’m so stunned that at first I don’t realize he’s furious. I’m almost—almost—hopeful. They’re fighting for me. They haven’t given up. For a second, it’s the only thing keeping me breathing.
But then the phone slams down on the side table, screen splintering. Blake’s whole body vibrates with fury, voice shaking as he rips the mask off his face—then just as quickly shoves it back on.
“Do you see what you’ve done?” His voice is raw, edged with betrayal and something feral. “You and your precious little rockstars. You think you’re going tobe rescuednow? You think all their fans are going to storm in and save you?”
I can barely breathe, chest tight, vision tunneling.
“Why are you even still wearing the mask?” I choke out, voice hoarse.
He leans in, face inches from mine, mask reflecting my wide, terrified eyes. “Because when they find you—if they find you—I want them to rememberthis. I want them to remember what it cost to make that fucking video. Every time they look at this mask, I want them to know they’re the reason you suffered.”
His hand flies to my throat, cold and relentless, squeezing until blackness spiders at the edges of my vision. He screams, spit flying, “Because of them, I can’t even go out and get what I need to keep you alive. Food. Water. Anything. Do you have any idea what they’ve done? What have you done?”
My world narrows to the vise of his grip, the burning panic for air. When he finally lets go, I collapse back, lungs burning, mind foggy and light.
His knife flashes—cold, cruel, a threat and a promise all in one. He circles the blade in the air, then drags it down my side, slicing through the waistband of my sleep shorts. He rips them down my legs, leaving me trembling, exposed, the cold air biting at my skin.
I watch in horror as he licks the handle of the knife, eyes never leaving mine, mask hiding his face but not the madness burning behind it.
He lowers the knife between my legs, voice dripping venom and anticipation.
“You want to be a whore for them? You want to let the world see what happens to girls who think they can leave me behind?”
He presses the flat of the blade against my inner thigh, cold and unyielding. My body flinches violently, instinct screamingstop,but I’m chained, helpless. “I told you, Sawyer. I always finish what I start. And I promise—by the timeI’m done, you’ll only ever think of me.”
The knife handle presses against my entrance. The cold bite of it is worse than the pain. A violation. A nightmare. My body recoils, but even as I fight it, some twisted reflex tightens around it when he pushes the handle inside. It burns—wrong and invasive. Tears sting my eyes, but I grit my teeth, refusing to give him that satisfaction.
I gasp, the invasion burning, the chains biting my wrists as I try to twist away. The fear is a living, suffocating thing, but I force out, “You never knew how to pleasure me, anyway. You think you can make me cum? Please. I faked every single one.”
He laughs, dark and hollow, rolling the handle inside me, twisting it so my body clenches in pain and outrage. “You think you’re clever. That’s why I always liked you, Sawyer. But you’ll regret that soon.”
I clenchmy jaw, spit out another lie—anything to keep him from seeing how close I am to breaking—to crying. “You’ll never get an orgasm from me. Not a real one. That’s something only real men know how to do. You’re not one.”
He only grins behind the mask, pressing the knife deeper, moving it in and out in slow, humiliating thrusts. My body twitches despite me, the unwanted sensation a grotesque reminder that nerve endings don’t care who’s touching them. I hate it. Hate the way my breath catches against my will. Hate the way my thighs shake—not from desire but from the effort to hold it all back.
This isn’t like the books, I tell myself. This isn’t safe, wanted, or chosen.This is hell.
He reaches into his pocket, never stopping the slow, humiliating thrust of the handle, and pulls out a black vibrator. He flicks it on, and the sound fills the air—a low, menacing hum.
His voice drops, as sharp as the blade he’s holding. “You’re right. I never cared. Not until I saw you in the window with them. Saw you fall apart for them. But now I’m taking it all back. Every single one. You’ll fall apart for me, on my knife, with this cunt that belongs to me.”
He brings the vibrator down, pressing it against my clit while the knife handle is still inside me, the cold and buzzing making every muscle in my body tighten in fear and shame. My mind screams—NO, NO, NO—but my voice is a choked whisper, too raw to be loud. My body, however, betrays me. The vibrations rattle through me, relentless, cruel, pushing my nerves to fire in ways I can’t control.
Thisisn’t pleasure.Thisisn’t what I want.Thisis my body reacting like a machine, broken and twisted.
God, this isn’t like Jasper’s hands—firm but reverent—or Riot’s playful touches that made me feel seen and worshipped.
This is wrong.
This is poison.
My only defense is my words, broken and desperate. “You’ll never have what they had. You’ll never have me.”
He grabsmy jaw, squeezing until I taste blood. “We’ll see, pet. We’ll see who youreallybelong to.”
The pain and humiliation merge, my body shaking with the effort to hold on to myself, to stay here, to not disappear into the darkness behind my eyes. I bite my tongue, counting breaths, telling myself over and over—
He presses the vibrator hard against me, the knife handle still moving inside, slow and relentless but picking up speed. I grit my teeth, biting back a scream. I tell myself not to break. Not to give him this. But my body isn’t listening anymore—every muscle locked, nerves sparking, the sensation blurring pain and pleasure until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
