18. Breaking Point

Eighteen

Breaking Point

H e guides me into the room, gesturing for me to enter first. I hesitate for a moment, my feet rooted to the spot as uncertainty washes over me. The room feels personal, almost sacred, and I can't shake the feeling that stepping inside might cross an invisible boundary. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, and finally step over the threshold, my eyes scanning the space that undoubtedly belongs to him.

It's beautiful in here. The lights are dimmed, aiding to the dark aesthetic. If this were under any other circumstances, I would want to stay here forever. The room has a skylight, and when you look up, you are under a blanket of stars. A telescope would trap me here for hours if I had the opportunity to do so.

It is clean, and the scent of cinnamon lingers in the air, weaving through the room like an invisible thread of warmth. I find myself in a trance, transported to a comforting place in the back of my mind, where the soft glow of candlelight flickers against the walls, casting dancing shadows that soothe my soul.

This peaceful escape, however, is abruptly cut short, pulling me back to reality with a jolt as the harsh sound of Marklovs voice interrupts me.

"Strip," he commands, his voice cold and devoid of emotion.

I hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do. But then, with a shaky hand, I complied.

"Yes…Master," I said barely above a whisper.

Marklov seems to be aroused due to me killing the woman in front of him. His breathing quickened and a twisted smile played on his lips, making my skin crawl. Part of me hopes there is a good reason behind his reaction, something that could make sense of this twisted situation.

But another part of me does not give a single fuck. The act of taking a life, feeling the power and control in that moment, was strangely empowering. The release was almost euphoric, a dark catharsis that drowned out the horror of the act itself. In that moment, all that mattered was the intense, primal satisfaction of unleashing my pent-up anger.

Standing over the woman with those recognizable features, I pushed them deep down and pictured her as Marklov. Fuckin' pig . It made it worth it. I just really wish it was him on his knees in front of me, begging for his pathetic life and not someone I was made to kill.

I slowly undress myself, my hands trembling like the last two leaves clinging to a tree in the fall, quivering with every breath of wind. Each movement feels deliberate and heavy as if the weight of the world rested on my shoulders. The fabric slips from my fingers, cascading to the floor in a quiet rustle, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. The chill of the room seeps into my skin, heightening the sensation of each goosebump that forms. My heart pounds, echoing the rhythm of my unsteady hands as I stood there, stripped bare.

I try to keep my focus on the fact that this is only temporary, and when I heal enough, I can get the fuck out of this place.

I look up to meet his gaze, his eyes locked onto mine with a primal intensity. It's as if he's evaluating me, deciding whether I'm worthy of his twisted affection or if he's going to carry out the sinister threats he made when I was just a child.

His gaze is intense, a predator assessing his prey, and I feel a shiver run down my spine. I knew I had to play my part perfectly to survive this twisted game of his. I just hope I survive the wrath of him.

Marklov strides over to his closet, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He retrieves a black case, its surface gleaming ominously in the dim light.

"Get on the bed," he commands, his voice deep and authoritative, leaving no room for argument.

I hesitate, feeling a chill run down my spine as I process his words.

"I have blood all over my hand and arm," I say, my voice trembling with confusion and a hint of concern.

The sight of the crimson stains on my skin only adds to the surreal horror of the moment, my mind struggling to make sense of the situation.

"Did I tell you to speak? And I thought I told you to address me as Master!" he barked, shaking his head in disappointment.

His tone cuts through the air like a knife, making me flinch. I can only hope he doesn't decide to punish me for my so-called "disobedience." The mere thought of potential lashings makes my stomach churn.

"Sorry, Master…" I mutter, my voice barely above a whisper.

I tell myself that this is all part of the act, trying to maintain my composure despite the growing tension in the room. I know I have to play the part convincingly. I just have to keep reminding myself of that, repeating it like a mantra in my mind.

He grunts, and I can't decipher its meaning. Is it a grunt of approval, signaling I've done enough? Or is it the ominous "That's not going to be enough," hinting at further punishment? Maybe it's the "I will show you sorry," promising torment.

"Lie down and put this on," he commands again, his voice dripping with authority.

I left the military to escape this exact kind of control, and yet here I am, facing someone who thinks he can dominate me like I'm a P.O.W.

One thing is for sure: I am his prisoner, but the only war that will take place will be my wrath. My mind is already plotting, every fiber of my being ready to unleash a storm he won't see coming.

He throws me a black cloth that I can only assume needs to be placed over my eyes—a blindfold. I can see nothing but pure darkness once I get it tied. His footsteps begin to close in on my position. I can't help but want to yank this blindfold off and run like my life depended on it. Because, well, it does.

I hear him set the case down at the foot of the bed, and with my only other way of knowing what's happening around me—listening—I try to pick up on every little sound.

The latch clicks softly, fabric rustles as he moves, and his breath hums faintly. Each noise offers a clue, a piece of the puzzle I need to understand my surroundings and anticipate his next move. The tension is palpable, and my heart rate quickens with every passing second. The quiet rustle of his movements fills me with dread, making me hyper-aware of every sound. I focus intently, trying to piece together the sequence of noises to predict his actions. My breathing becomes shallow, matching the rhythm of his, as I brace myself for whatever comes next.

He begins tracing my leg with what feels like a rope. "Tonight, you were extravagant. You fed fire to my soul that cannot be tamed. However, your disobedience needs to be worked on, but I have more plans for that later."

He continues tracing up my bare skin onto my stomach, the rope brushing my breasts and causing my nipples to stand at attention. I hate my body for responding this way; my brain tells it to retreat, but it does the complete opposite.

His touch is both gentle and commanding, a stark contrast that leaves me feeling exposed and vulnerable. The rope's rough texture against my skin sends shivers down my spine, heightening my senses and making every touch more pronounced.

He pauses momentarily as if he is savoring my reaction before continuing his slow, deliberate movements.

"Your body betrays you, Little Sinister," he murmurs, almost to himself.

"It knows what it wants, even if your mind resists." His words are a cruel reminder of the power he holds over me, a power that extends beyond physical control and into the very core of my being.

I try to steel myself against the sensations, but it's a losing battle. The line between fear and desire blurs, leaving me trapped in a web of conflicting emotions.

I whimper. "Please stop, I don't want to do this." My breath is shaking.

He chuckles darkly.. "Oh, Little Sinister. You're loca to think that you have any say on what I do to you. You're mine, now and forever."

He begins to tie my hands above my head on each side of the bedpost. His cologne is intoxicating, but I can't let that distract me. The cold metal of his necklace drags lightly across my chest as he reached over to tie my hands up above my head. He pulls the restraints tightly. The rope bites into my wrists, a reminder of my current situation.

As his fingertips trace a path back down my body, I can feel the goosebumps rising on my skin. The sensation is both chilling and electric, a clear difference from the warmth of his touch. I can hear him rustling around, the sound of metal clinking and fabric shifting filling the otherwise silent room.

He forcefully grips my ankles, his fingers digging into my skin with an unsettling intensity. With chilling precision, he repeats the same binding process he used on my hands, the restraints biting into my flesh. The room feels colder, the air heavy with a sense of impending dread as he secures my legs, leaving me completely at his mercy.

I am stretched out like a star, my limbs pulled taut and vulnerable, each joint aching from the strain. My body trembles uncontrollably under Marklovs touch, each shiver a testament to my helplessness. I despise myself for this reaction, feeling a deep sense of betrayal by my own flesh.

Every sound is magnified—the creak of the floorboards, the rustle of fabric, the slow, deliberate rhythm of his breathing matching mine. My mind races, a chaotic whirl of fear and anger, as I struggle against the bindings that hold me captive.

"There are many things in this world that you can be. The main two are either dead or alive," he said, his tone a haunting enigma that I can not decipher.

"I bet you wish I were dead. After all, I'm the one responsible for your mother's death."

My ears start to ring, and the room seems to close in around me, making it hard to breathe. I feel my body shake from the sheer anger coursing through me. My hands clench into fists so tight that my nails dig painfully into my palms. The walls seem to press in, suffocating me with their crushing weight. Each breath feels like a struggle, my chest tightening with a mix of rage and grief. Thankfully the blindfold holds up my tears preventing Marklov from seeing them fall. I can feel the heat rising to my face. The overwhelming desire to lash out, to make him feel even a fraction of the pain he's has ever caused, eats at me.

Marklov's words hang in the air, each a dagger piercing my heart.

"You had no idea, did you?" he says, his voice dripping with mockery.

"Your mother defied me, she lied and tried to steal, and now you're entangled in the consequences of her past mistakes, not to mention owing me for the loss of my finger." I knew he'd bring that up sooner or later.

I try to process what he's saying, but the shock is overwhelming. My mind races, flashing back to memories of my mother. They may not have been perfect—there were moments of struggle and pain—but she was everything I ever wanted in life. I remember the nights she held me close, whispering promises of a better future, even when her eyes were filled with tears. We didn't have much, but her love was the anchor that sometimes kept me grounded.

Now, the thought of her being gone forever leaves a gaping hole in my heart, a void that can never be filled. A piece of me that will forever be missing. Each cherished moment, every hug and joyful giggle was locked away, replaced by the harsh reality of her absence.

I tried as best as I could to suppress those memories, burying them beneath layers of sorrow and loss, hoping that by doing so, the pain would lessen. But no matter how deep I buried them, they always found a way to resurface. And now, to know that this man, this monster, took her from me—it's almost too much to bear.

Marklov laughs at my desperate attempt to escape the ropes binding me. His laughter is filled with cruel amusement as he takes pleasure in my suffering.

Tears start to soak through the blindfold, and I know this is a sight he relishes. He wants to see me like this. I hear him pull something out, and the sound of a torn velcro strap fills the room. Damn it. I try to keep myself from breaking down completely over the news he just unleashed, but how am I supposed to react when the man who ruined my childhood and murdered my mother has me in his grasp?

He begins tracing my skin with something familiar and sharp, a knife. He is touching me with a knife, I start to fight against the ropes and he yanks away,

"Ah ah ah Little Sinister I wouldn't do that if I were you, this…knife of yours is very deadly." He lets out in a mocked tone.

My knife? Is he using my own fuckin' weapon against me?

My heart pounds as the cold metal of my knife grazes my skin.

"You think you can escape this? Escape me?" he taunts, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

"You're nothing but a pawn in my game, and I've only just begun to play with you, Little Sinister."

Panic surges through me, battling against the numbing fear that threatens to paralyze me. I can't let him see how much he's affecting me; I won't give him that satisfaction. I force myself to breathe steadily, focusing intently on the rhythmic pounding of my heartbeat echoing in my ears, trying to drown out his cruel laughter. Each breath feels like a small victory, a defiance against the terror he's trying to instill. At least he just admitted that he won't be killing me tonight, which gives me a sliver of hope to cling to, a slight chance to find a way out of this hell hole.

"I have waited and even dreamed about this moment for a long time, Little Sinister. I want everything to be perfect. That's why I told you about your madre. I don't want any secrets between us."

Why would that even matter? His words swirl in my mind, adding to the confusion and fear. As I wiggle my hands back and forth, the ropes bite deeper into my skin, each time sending a jolt of pain through me. I grit my teeth, trying to ignore the searing pain and focus on any possible way to escape. His revelation about my mom only fuels my determination; I need to survive this. His death will fall into my hands one way or another.

"You honestly believe this is going to bring us closer?" I challenge, my voice steadier than I feel.

Despite the turmoil inside me, I can sense his excitement radiating off him, almost palpable, drifting in the air between us.

"Little Sinister, this is just the continuation of what I started all those years ago," he says, his voice causing my stomach to churn.

The knife's cold blade traces more of my skin, a vivid reminder of his dominance. Each touch sends shivers down my spine, highlighting the danger I'm in and the power he wields. His words and actions create a sinister symphony, playing on my deepest desires and pushing me to my limits.

"Secrets can be dangerous, but trust? That's what I crave," he murmurs, leaning closer.

"That's what tonight is about, trust, and you showed me I can trust you with my light work, and for that, I will praise you. However, as for the disobedience you showed tonight,, I will punish you," his voice darkens.

I stop my struggling, my lips beginning to tremble. Marklov places the knife back onto my warm flesh, the coldness causing goosebumps to erupt across my skin. He starts tracing my body, limb by limb, starting with my ankles. The blade glides up to my thighs, sending a shiver down my spine. From my thighs, he moves the tip of the blade to my muffin top. I can't hold back a whimper.

"Do you feel that, Little Sinister?" he whispers, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "Every inch of you belongs to me now."

My breath hitches as the knife continues its journey. I can feel the sharp edge pressing just enough to break the skin. My mind races, torn between the fear of what he might do next and the desperate need to find a way out.

"Why?" I manage to choke out, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Why are you doing this?" I take a hard swallow "Master."

He chuckles darkly, his eyes gleaming with twisted pleasure.

"Because, my dear, breaking you is the only way I can truly own you." He lifts the blade once again from my skin, and I feel a momentary relief before his footsteps draw closer.

His hand clamps down on my jaw, squeezing it until I open my mouth. Panic surges through me as he shoves a ball gag inside, muffling any noise I try to make.

"This ought to keep you quiet," he says, his voice drips with pleasure.

The gag presses against my tongue, making it impossible to form words. My heart pounds in my chest as he steps back.

I try to scream out, but only a muffled whimper escapes. Not that anyone here will help me anyway.

"Now, let's see how long it takes to break that spirit of yours," he murmurs, his fingers trailing the knife's edge along my collarbone.

He adds enough pressure to cut through a layer of my skin, and I instantly feel the air hitting the wetness of the blood. It burns, an intense sting that radiates from the wound, and all of my body is now focuses on it.

He leans in closer, his breath hot against my ear. "You see, Little Sinister, pain has a way of making everything else disappear."

I try to pull away, but the restraints hold me firmly in place. I remind myself of what Marklov said to me earlier. I need to just push the pain away and get it all over with.

My mind is a whirlwind of fear and pain, each breath a struggle. The cut throbs, and I can feel the blood trickling down my skin.

The knife is now going between my legs and nearing my cunt. I clench my fists in hopes that I can control my urges to lash out and hide the pain he is causing me. Marklov flips the knife over, now having the handle rub against my folds. I do not like where this is heading.

Marklov takes his free hand, trailing it up my prickly skin, and spreads me open wide for him. I try not to move because the knife is still on my skin.

Shit.This sick fuckin' bastard.

He places the tip of the blade near my entrance, teasing me with the less sharp side. Using his other hand, he rubs my bud, which is now at attention for him. I remind myself of my situation, if I lash out now I will be in a world of pain.

I can not take this. A knife to my cunt is where I draw the line.

"Behave, Little Sinister," He lets out in a deep voice.

This needs to be over with already.

He places his hot tongue on my cunt, slowly stroking my bud up and down and traces it in circles.

He begins sucking on my bud, making my back arch. My hands grab hold of the ropes that have me restrained. He flips my knife back to the grip side and circles my entrance.

Fuck, I really should not be enjoying this.

Marklov inserts my knife inside of me, slowly pumping it in and out, each movement sending a electrified jolts down my body. He continues sucking on my bud, his tongue expertly flicking over the sensitive skin, and I can't help but moan, the sound escaping my trapped lips involuntarily.

I seriously need to see a therapist or something, I think, as my body betrays me.

Marklov moans into me, the vibration adding another layer of sensation as he drags the knife in and out, the cold steel contrasting with the heat of his mouth. "Fuck, Little Sinister," he growls, his voice thick with desire.

"You taste like heaven, carved out perfectly by the Diablo himself." His words send a thrill through me, a dangerous mix of fear and arousal that leaves me breathless.

Marklov knows what he is doing in a dark yet pleasurable sense.

The knife slides out of me, and he takes the blade down my thigh, cutting me, causing me to react. I try kicking and pulling my hands inward but only fail. Tears begin streaming down my face, fighting there way through the fabric and panic sets in.

"This is not about your pleasure, Little Sinister. This is about your pain," he barked out as I lay here crying and in pain.

Marklov stands up and walks closer to me. He takes his thumb and wipes a tear that had escaped through the blindfold. Tracing my jawline lightly, trailing up to pull off my blindfold.

"How do you make pain look so beautiful, Little Sinister?" He let out, our eyes locking on one another.

My adrenaline is racing fast, making my breaths feel constricted, and the stinging on my thigh subsides.

Marklov gives me the slightest grin, taking his hand up my arm and grabbing hold of my pointer finger. The rope friction has my wrists beat red and ready to bleed.

Saliva drips from the gag that is placed tightly around my head and in my mouth. He separates my finger from the others.

"Do you remember that night?" He said in a dark tone.

"The night that you did this?" He holds up his hand, showing me the half-severed finger of his.

My eyes diverted away, and I squeezed them shut, not wanting to see what was about to come my way.

He squeezes my finger tightly, quickly bringing my knife up to continue to use it against me. Marklov cuts my finger clean off as if it were nothing. As if the bone was nonexistent. I could taste the sweat, and my tears mixed together, slipping into my mouth.

The gag muffles my screams, turning them into desperate whimpers. The pain is immediate and blinding, and I can feel the blood pulsing from the wound, each heartbeat a reminder of my vulnerability.

Marklov's eyes are cold, devoid of any remorse.

"Now you understand," he whispers, his voice a chilling lullaby. "Pain is the only language you can comprehend."

The next thing I see is darkness…