Page 177 of Hymns of the Broken
I feel myself shutting down, letting his words pound against me like hailstones until they’re just noise, until I’m numb.
He turnson the water, letting it rain down over my head, hot and relentless. I want to scream, but the sound catches in my throat. He grabs shampoo, lathers it in his hands, and starts working it into my hair. I zone out as he scrubs, my body swaying under the weight of exhaustion and fear, my mind trying to float away from the feeling of his nails scraping my scalp. I imagine I’m somewhere else—on the bus, with Jasper leaning in too close, with Riot teasing me until I smile. Anywhere but here.
Then comes the soap.Hispalms drag down my shoulders, my arms, across my chest. His hands are slow, methodical, like he’s pretending this is care. But I can feel the hunger under it, the way his touch lingers, greedy. He takes his time, moving lower down my ribs, across my stomach, and when his hands skim over my hips, I tense so hard my wrists burn from straining against the cuffs.
My body is a war zone. My brain is screaming stop, but my nerves still react, still feel everything. The contrast between the hot water andhisstiff fingers. The wrongness of it all.
He leans close, voice low and almost nostalgic. “You used to love when we showered together, Sawyer. You’d beg me to wash your hair, your body, every inch. Remember?”
I grit my teeth, fighting the flash of memory, the part of me that remembers any of this with softness. That girl is gone. Dead.Thisis not love.Thisis control.
He finishes, but doesn’t unhook me. He steps back, admiring me like I’m some twisted piece of artwork, eyes burning behind the mask.
“I could keep you like this forever,” he murmurs, voice thick with possessive heat. “You’re perfect, chained and clean, all mine.”
I stare at the tiles, at the water swirling down the drain, willing myself to disappear. But I hold on to the one thinghecan’t touch—the part of me that refuses to break. Not for him.
But then I feel him moving behind me, closer, the heat of him pressing into my back. My stomach drops when my eyes—without permission—catch on the bulge in his pants. Disgust rips through me. I force my gaze away, but it’s too late. He saw it. He knows.
The metallic jingle of his belt undoes me faster than anything else. My pulse spikes as if I’ve been shocked. He steps out of his pants, casual, like this is just another morning.
“No. No, please—” My voice cracks, raw from disuse and too many silent screams.
Blake smirks under his mask, kicking his pants aside. “Relax. I need a shower too.”
He steps under the spray, his body cutting off the light. Water runs down his chest, over the mask, over the eyes that never leave me. I stare at the mask because it’s easier than looking at the hunger on his face. Easier than acknowledging what’s coming.
Then his hand moves to his cock, stroking himself with a groan—low, filthy, unguarded. The sound makes my stomach twist. I shut my eyes, desperate for escape, and my mind claws toward something—someone—else.
“You used to love watching me touch myself to you, Sawyer. You look so fucking hot right now—defiant, chained up, all mine.”
He strokes himself, never taking his eyes off me. My mind recoils, tries to fold in on itself. I don’t want to see him. I don’t like this. But my eyes flick down anyway—just for a second, to get it over with.
It’s not Blake, I see. I force myself to imagine anything else—Jasper and Riot, both masked, both watching me, touching themselves for me. I build the fantasy in my head, layer by layer, to survive. It’s wrong, but it’s the only thing that makes the world bearable, that keeps me from falling apart.
Blake steps closer, his cock hard, his breath heavy behind the mask. The fantasy fractures, crashing away like glass. My throat goes tight as I jerk back against the chain, wrists screaming in pain.
“Don’t touch me, Blake,” I snap, voice trembling but strong, pure instinct forcing the words out before he can get any closer.
His eyes narrow behind the mask, a wicked smile twisting across his mouth like I just gave him a challenge. I refuse to flinch. I refuse to look away. If all I have left is the hatred in my eyes, then that’s what I’ll burn him with.
He steps right up to me, chest brushing mine, the heat of him mixing with the steam. I feel trapped by his shadow, his obsession. My breathing quickens, shallow and sharp.
Then, without a word, he removes the mask and lets it fall onto the shower floor. His face is flushed, damp, wild—jaw clenched so hard I can see the pulse throbbing in his neck. He leans in close, his breath a hot whisper against my ear.
“I’m about to take what else belongs to me,” he says.
The words send a spike of icy fear straight to my gut. I try to back up, but there’s nowhere to go—the chain yanks me still, wrists burning, shoulders straining. My body is frozen, but my mind is screaming,’Fight, Sawyer’.
Then he drops to his knees right in front of me, his gaze locked between my legs like I’m prey he’s about to devour. Something snaps in me—pure survival. I bring my knee up, aiming for his face with all the rage and terror I’ve been choking down.
He’s fast. Faster than I remember. His hand snaps out, and there’s a flash of silver. The knife. He holds it inches from my skin, his voice low and venomous.
“Try that again and I’ll fucking cut you, Sawyer.”
My heart hammers against my ribs, but I kick anyway, desperate to get free. This time,hecatches my ankle, fingers bruising. His blade drags across my thigh—not deep, but enough for blood to bloom, the sting burning through the hot water. My breath catches. Then he grabs my hip and slices again—deeper. The blood flows faster, mixing with heat and running in red rivulets down my skin.
Pain explodes through me. My stomach flips with nausea.
