NovelStartSylvia stared at Mark as he approached, her body heavy as lead. She tried to push herself off the chair, but couldn't so much as twitch a finger.
Mark stopped in front of her, taking his sweet time. He crouched down, his fingers brushing over her cheek and tracing down her back.
"Damn, what a perfect complexion. No wonder you fetch a higher price than the rest. Don't worry, I'll be careful." Price? Skin? The words rattled in Sylvia's foggy mind.
She managed to force her lips apart, her voice shaky and slow. "W-what do you mean, price? What... skin?" Just saying that felt like it drained every last drop of her energy. Her limbs went limp, sprawled uselessly on the floor.
Mark's lips curled into a grin, as if he'd just remembered something delicious. His hands twitched with excitement.
He leaned in closer, his breath reeking of whiskey. "You've been sold, sweetheart." Sylvia's brain reeled. She tried to twist away, her teeth grit with effort. "No! Stop! Don't you'll bruise me! You'll ruin the look!" Mark only laughed, then drove his boot down on her desperately scrabbling fingers.
Follow on NovᴇlEnglish.nᴇtPain shot up her arm, sharp enough to make her gasp-but her voice barely made it out.
He hoisted her onto the long oak dining table with disturbing ease, then pulled out a length of bright red rope- something he'd probably picked up at a hardware store, though it looked custom-made for this. He tied her wrists and ankles to the table legs, every knot secure and practiced.
When everything was set, Mark poured himself a glass of bourbon, swirling it slowly as he looked her over from head to toe.
"Gorgeous. You know, you already took the sedative. You won't feel any pain- actually, you might even enjoy it. You should be grateful I'm preserving your beauty." He pronounced every word as if he was making a toast, then dropped a dissolving tablet into his own drink. It fizzed and vanished.
He slugged it back, closed his eyes, inhaled deeply. When he opened them again, there was nothing but wild, feverish glee.
Whistling an old folk tune, Mark pulled a plastic coverall from his bag and slipped it on, his fingers grazing over an array of gleaming knives. He finally chose a scalpel, sharp as a razor.
Sylvia lay on the table, her limbs bound so tightly, she couldn't even struggle.
She could only watch as Mark brought the scalpel to her cheek, his voice a low, chilling purr. "Hush now, my muse." The words made her want to throw up. Now she understood—his “inspiration" had always cfrom this.
No wonder he'd never had a public girlfriend. She'd thought he was just private, maybe even romantic. But his muses had never survived long enough for anyone to notice.
The cold steel slid down her face, then paused at the nape of her neck.
Rip.
Her shirt split open along her back.
Mark traced his hand over her skin, making appreciative noises as if admiring a fine painting.
"You'll be my masterpiece." "We'll take our time... you'll love it." The blade touched her bare skin.
Follow on Novᴇl-Onlinᴇ.cᴏm'S get Terry trembled violently, a o primal it felt like soming was crawling out of her very soul.
Her brain felt like it had been by 2g. Voices that didn't belong to her started echoing SWOO louder.
"Is it my turn now?" "So much blood..."
Her head throbbed with pain. Maybe it was the drugs-or maybe the fear. She didn't even know what hurt anymore.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, soaking the polished wood beneath her.
Suddenly, it was as if someone else took over her body. She stopped struggling, her eye eyes wide and vacant.
Through the blur, she thought she saw the door crash open.
A silhouette overlapped with the one inside her mind.
Before she could focus, a coat landed over her shoulders, covering her body and blocking her view.
Visit our social media platform to read fascinating stories every day and connect with the community!
