Jonas (Darkness #7)(7)

“I need answers.” Her voice sounded unnaturally loud in the drafty space.

His gaze traveled over her face and lingered on the blue and purple bruise covering her eye and cheek. It drifted down her body next, but not sexually. He noticed her stance and posture before his eyes glued to her side. To where Nathanial had kicked her and cracked a rib. Thank the gods she got her mother’s fast healing or she wouldn’t have been able to complete their session today.

“I’ve mostly taken it easy on you. But you are out of time. I will accept your name first, of course. Do you wish to give it?”

That burning gaze locked with hers for a moment. It delved into her with raw force. And then turned away toward the wall. Waiting for what came next.

So she gave it. Hard. With all her experience, and all her knowledge, she railed on him with one hit after the other. The crack of the whip cut through the air. Slices opened up on his body. Blood started oozing from his wounds.

“Name,” she demanded.

He stared straight ahead.

She hit him harder. Slashed at him. Tore his skin.

His face went pale. The muscles on his substantial body flexed. When she switched to his back, she could see his arms straining. Even his feet were flexed against the pain.

“Give me your name, and you can end this,” she said between slashes.

She walked to his front, again. His gaze swiveled up to hers. Defiance etched his every feature.

“You force my hand,” she whispered.

He held her eyes this time. She flicked her whip with a practiced hand. An experienced hand. The tip ripped away flesh. Flayed him. Stripped him of flesh piece by piece.

Most men would’ve passed out by now.

She gave him another. And another.

His eyes started to dull. The fire within them doused. A shadow crossed over his features and his shoulders sagged. It wasn’t the pain that was doing this, though. His mind was dwelling on something. Something in his life, or his past, was taking his attention. He’d done the same thing yesterday—he’d battled some sort of inner turmoil.

She kept at it, harder now. The memory of Nathanial’s forced touches bled into her consciousness. The degradation of being passed around to random people and exposing her vein ate away her thoughts.

She hit him even harder as tears worked their way up. He had to submit to her. He had to give her something. She couldn’t take going back to that life. Not again. She’d climbed out of there. She’d made herself their torturer. She’d earned her independence!

“Give me your name!” she seethed.

A lost look washed over the man’s features. A haunted, broken look entered his eyes. With the next strip of the whip his lips curved downward, but his body didn’t slump. He was fighting it. Fighting whatever hurt more than this whip. Whatever ate him from the inside out.

Damned if she didn’t know that from experience.

Without meaning to, her punishment eased. Seeing his features, his dejected loss, his battle with something only he knew, sent shivers through her. Reminded her of what she faced on a daily basis. Of the expressions she so often saw in the mirror when she held the razor blade and dared herself to cut her artery.

In the next instant, it all cleared. His inner-battle ended. His eyes snapped open with wild hunger. The hard light of triumph burned deeply. His whole body straightened and flexed. A huge display of muscle rolled and moved. His large manhood sprang upwards, tenting his sweats. His eyes delved into hers again with an invitation.

No, not an invitation. An appeal to share in this moment. To join with him.

And then it occurred to her. Like a flash of awareness, she finally saw.

She couldn’t break someone that was already broken. That had been done for her. And while he could triumph over the pain, he hadn’t been able to build himself back up. His experiences had broken him, but no one had reshaped him into a whole being again.

She’d been wasting her time. She needed to move to the next step: compassion. She needed to treat him like she’d already torn him down, and now make him into what she needed. Her slave.

But how did she move on to the next step without an open line of communication? Usually she’d gotten answers before she tore the men down. She could then build on those answers when she reshaped them. How could she reshape when she wasn’t the one who broke him?

Kindness? Honesty?

“I’m not really sure what to do with you,” she started. She hung up her whip and bent to the bowl of water and sponge in the corner. A moan slipped out as her rib screamed in pain. She straightened up with effort and took a moment to collect herself before taking a few steps and kneeling carefully at his back.

“You are not responding as you should.” She gently laid the sponge against his back. He flinched, but didn’t try to twist away. Slowly and methodically, she began to clean him up. “I’m going to have to try some new techniques before they try and pry you open with magic. They know, though, that magic tends to kill eight times out of ten. You could probably withstand it, but it is a terrible way to get information. The subjects are incoherent afterwards. It’s usually used for punishment or their horrible amusements.”

She straightened up again, desperately trying to ignore the throbbing pain in her side. She crossed in front of him and kneeled. Her eyes found his, and paused. He looked back with an assessing type of stare. Trying to figure her out, maybe? Trying to figure out why she suddenly changed tactics?