Chapter Fourteen

Diana

ANOTHER ODD THING I notice, Thomas has never withheld food from me. Being poor growing up, we never had a lot of extra to eat, and then that fat bastard ensured I didn't eat much to keep me skinny and small and young-looking. In stories, people who are kidnapped like this are usually punished by having meals withheld. Not here.

Not that any punishment I have gotten has been nice. But…

No buts, Diana! I scold myself. Don't start sympathizing with him and this crazy ass place!

No, it's not sympathizing. It's just curiosity. That's all.

Right?

It keeps my mind busy to think about the mundane things around me. I can't escape, so I can at least stay alert.

Who cooks? The food sometimes tastes different, so do different people cook for the whole cult? I know they have worship on Sundays with the public, but how many people are in this cult, like, living here?

So far, I know of Thomas, Lisa, Catherine, and Father Oliver. Maybe the man who brought the cabinet down too. Were Lisa and Catherine taken like me? "Rescued"? Do men get "rescued" too? What were they like before? What was Thomas like? Was he wild, like the version of him I saw the other night?

If I never comply, will I be stuck down here forever? Or will Thomas kill me like he killed Rick?

The memory of Thomas' sheer energy — never mind the whole rock star look he had going on — makes me shiver. That wasn't a novice pastor. That was a killer. And not a cold one. He killed with passion that emanated from his body in waves. Knowing if I don't comply that he may kill me with that same passion is terrifying.

He'd also fuck you with that same passion, the little voice in my head reminds me. Maybe the first time in your life you actually enjoyed it.

Shut. Up. I squeeze my eyes shut and tune out my subconscious.

Here's the sad thing.

If he wanted me for me, maybe I'd give in. Hell, I'll join a cult if I am taken care of and cherished.

But I'm not. He wants to save me. To change me. He doesn't care about me, he wants to mold me to some imaginary potential he is obsessed with. No one has ever loved me for me. Not even a crazy man.

I swallow around a lump in my throat.

What am I supposed to do, knowing I will never be perfect for anyone to actually love?

The door to the basement opens, interrupting my pity party for one.

Thomas has something tucked under his arm, and I also see gauze pads and something that looks like an antiseptic.

What the Hell?

"Take your gown off — you may leave your underwear on — and get on your knees, elbows on the mattress as if you are praying. And pray you will, little sinner."

His eyes are hard, emotionless with the exception of the same distaste he had on his face ever since night one, when he pissed on me in the tub. I know better than to try and disobey him. The punishments are violent, but I can handle them. I don't want to provoke him into doing more.

I stand and remove the nightgown; he watches, but dispassionately. No sign of the wild man whom I saw the other night, who would've taken me no matter what.

Folding it, I put it on the bed and then kneel as he told me to.

The faster I do this, the faster it is over with.

"Move your hair so your back is free."

I do so, gathering it on one side over my shoulder.

"Fold your hands before you. You will not move from that position unless I tell you to, understood, sinner?"

"Yes, sir," I reply.

I hear his boots as he walks behind me, at some distance. Maybe two feet? What could he possibly do—

Fuck!

I hear the sound of the whip hitting bare skin before I feel it, and once the sting hits me, I let out an involuntary gasp.

"Good. Let it all out. Cry if you must. Curse. Scream. Unburden your soul so you may be cleansed of the evil within you," Thomas commands. He whips me again, in a different spot, and I bite my tongue.

I won't cry. I had all the tears from pain beaten out of me long ago. If Thomas wants to break me, this isn't how he'll do it. I won't let him.

And that is exactly what it seems like he wants to do as he whips me harder, lashing and lacerating my skin. Hot blood trickles down my back, tickling me. It's an odd sensation in sharp contrast to the pain, and I hate it.

But I won't let him know.

He grunts as he whips me, as if he's using all his force. However, I fear this isn't close to the real strength he has, which would likely kill me. Should I be happy or sad he's holding back?

"Pray, sinner," he tells me. "Pray the pain reaches through your sullied soul."

And I do, unsure if anyone hears me. I pray for relief, for peace, to be loved and cared for and comforted for once in my life.

What did I do that was so evil it required me to live a life of pain?

That thought, asked to a God I am not sure I believe in, almost makes me cry and break. Almost. I won't. I won't let another man shatter me.

The strength it takes to hold myself still, to keep my tears at bay, to weather the pain as if it doesn't feel like my skin has been sliced off, causes sweat to break out on my body. The salt burns the wounds, making my suffering even greater.

If Thomas knew, he would probably be happy.

I refuse to give him that satisfaction.

I lose track of time for how long the torture continues. It could be five minutes or an hour. Tuning it out, diving within myself, helps dull the pain, helps me not react. Only when it has stopped for a few minutes and I hear footsteps do I exit my inner reverie.

Thomas steps behind me and traces his finger down my back, between the open lacerations. I close my eyes, shuddering. He's too gentle. It doesn't make sense. And yet, his soft touch combined with the pain is a heady mix. I could get used to this, and that terrifies me.

"Stay still," he commands, and I hear a hint of frustration in his voice. Something cold touches my back and the sharp scent of rubbing alcohol hits my nose. Only a moment later, my skin is set aflame from the sensation of it hitting the fresh wounds.

If only I could scream, but that will do me no good. It never did. So I dive deeper into myself as he cleans my wounds, wiping blood away, pressing something to them.

Only when the pressure of his hands is gone do I slowly come back to reality and focus on the present.

"You may get up and put your gown back on," he says, the heat of his body gone as he stands up and moves away.

I nod, willing my limbs not to tremble as I stand up and put the gown on, but it's no use. I have no strength left; I used it all up keeping my composure. It's difficult to lower myself to the bed to sit before I collapse. Sweat stings the wounds and runs down my face and I wish he'd leave so I could cry.

Looking up at him, he looks wild once more. His hair has come loose of the half man bun thing he had it in, and he too has a thin sheen of sweat on his skin.

And I can't miss how hard he is; that has to be painful. My blood is on his hands, splattered onto his white t-shirt. Seeing it, combined with his countenance, a wave of lust hits me and I want to die from humiliation.

How could I be turned on at the sight of a man who gets hard after making me bleed?

Thomas stares for a moment before kneeling down in front of me, studying me like he so often does. But the dark heat in his gaze, the barely concealed lust and rage, terrifies me and excites me at the same time.

He brushes his hand across my face, moving the hair stuck to my sweat-soaked skin, and I flinch away from his touch.

Leaning back, he opens his mouth, closes it, and finally says, "Okay, I need one answer from you now because it's driving me crazy."

Aren't you already crazy?

"What is it?"

"You have dealt with my punishments without complaint, pleas, or flinching. Occasionally, you gasp or whine once, and that is all. Yet the few times I touch you without intent to harm, to punish, you behave as if I am prodding you with a hot poker. Why ?"

He sounds absolutely exasperated, and that almost makes me smile. Another thing that intrigues me: he has questions about my behavior, just as I do about his.

This time, I can answer him honestly.

"Because … when you hurt me — punish me — I know what to expect. I'm indifferent to pain; I've been through worse with worse intentions behind the actions. But when you touch my face or my hair, and it doesn't hurt, panic sets in. Because I don't know what to expect.

"Pain and I? We are old enemies. I know what pain will do to me, and I am not afraid. Gentle? I don't know what gentleness is . I don't know what you're going to do to me, and that terrifies me."

He regards me, taking in what I said. He is so transparent when he's not torturing me; I feel like I can see the cogs of his mind working, decoding what I say and what I don't.

"One day, you will open up to me. But answer me this, at least." He pauses, waiting to see if I will protest, maybe. But I have to hear the question first. I will endure more pain as long as I don't have to relive those three years.

"You can take pain. Have you ever given it?" The darkness I see in his eyes deepens, and a small, evil little part of me likes it.

I think about the principal. How making him bleed gave me a sense of euphoria I haven't felt since. Sticky blood under my nails, on my lips, even in my teeth because I bit so hard. His screams of agony and shock. As my heart begins to race, something in my face must change because Thomas smirks.

"So it seems my little dove has more sin than I thought," he murmurs. He moves a hand as if he is going to touch me and stops.

"I've never killed anyone," I say. Unlike you.

"Pity. I should have not sheltered you; I should have brought you with me when I went to visit your former landlord," he muses. "I am sure being chained to me would not have hindered you."

I'm not that girl anymore, I think. I had the fight beaten out of me long before you ever laid a hand on me.

"I do wish I knew what you were thinking sometimes." He stands, and I see my blood on his hands, and my heart has not calmed down from the rush of remembering my one taste of revenge.

"No, you don't."