you've got the butterflies all tied up

“Volkan, please.” Felicia’s voice cracked on the word. “Please, just let him go, I’ll do whatever you want, just not him—”

“You’re getting hysterical.” Calm and steady, Volkan placed his hands on her shoulders and guided her towards one of the leather armchairs circling the fireplace. “You need to relax if you want to be with him for this.”

At that, Marcus snapped. “Stop touching her, you fucking freak—”

“I’ll get to you in a minute, boy,” Volkan said, waving a dismissive hand in his direction as he forced Felicia into the chair. She was pale, silent, eyes wide, and she allowed herself to be sat down without protest. Their chance for freedom was slipping away.

“Felicia—” If she was tied down, if neither of them could move, it was over. Marcus fought his bonds with fresh urgency. “Felicia, do something!”

She locked eyes with him, and hers were dull, the light fading. Everything was moving too fast and in slow motion all at once as Volkan pulled cuffs from his pocket—fucking creep, did he carry those around all the time?—and bound Felicia to the chair by one wrist, then the other. Marcus thrashed, and by the time Felicia snapped into action, she was already trapped. They had lost before they’d even begun.

Volkan brushed her hair from her face with a mock tenderness, then turned back to face Marcus. He cleared the space between them in in a few steps and loomed over Marcus. Fuck, he was so tall. Marcus had to crane his neck to look up at him, and that pissed him off even more.

“Volkan, please.” Felicia’s voice was shaking, and the sound of it hurt Marcus more than anything. Looking past the bulk of Volkan, Marcus could just make her out in the glow of the fireplace, small and making herself smaller with every breath.

Volkan’s smile was slow, indulgent, infuriating, and he allowed her to stumble over her words for a minute before sliding a knife from his belt. The blade of it caught the light, and Felicia fell silent.

Marcus was silent, too, watching the knife like a hawk. It was danger—but it was an opportunity. All he needed was two fucking seconds and he could do it. He’d grab the knife and drive it through Volkan’s heart and get them both out of there. His pulse pounded with anticipation.

Turning the blade, Volkan pressed the flat of it against Marcus’s cheek almost gently. His free hand ran through Marcus’s hair with an intimacy that sent ice through his veins, that reminded him of what Felicia had told him after the dance and what this man was capable of.

“Open your mouth.” The command was both unexpected and inevitable, and Marcus could only recoil. From her chair, Felicia was struggling anew, pleading, “Volkan—”

Volkan smiled down at Marcus almost sweetly, and then he crossed the room in two steps and buried the knife in Felicia’s stomach. It was so fast, so sudden, Marcus couldn’t process—and then it slammed into clarity, and he was yelling, and Felicia was frozen, blood welling up around where the knife pierced her. Her eyes were glassy and her chest heaved with tiny breaths.

“I can heal her.” Volkan left the knife to return to Marcus. Marcus couldn’t tear his eyes from Felicia, whose hands gripped the armrests with white knuckles, whose face was paling by the second. She was going to die while he did nothing.

“Marcus.” Rough hands tilted his face away from Felicia to look up again at Volkan. He was already hard, the piece of shit. “I can heal her. But first you need to open your mouth.”

“Fuck you, you bastard,” Marcus spat. Volkan was a sick fuck, and it was a game to him, and Marcus had lost.

Volkan said nothing, smiling broadly, and after a heartbeat and another hitch of breath from Felicia, Marcus opened his mouth.

Volkan took his cock out and rested it between Marcus’s lips, doing nothing, and fuck, this bastard was going to make him do all the work. From the corner of his eye, he could see Felicia stirring, coming back into herself; and then he realized he couldn’t look at her while doing this, so he closed his eyes and began to suck.

With his eyes shut and the roar in his ears blocking out the world around him, the cock in his mouth could be anyone’s, some anonymous hookup at a bar, some guy he’d crashed with after a late night. He leaned into that feeling; this was sex, nothing more, and if he could finish it quickly—

“Eyes open, boy.” Volkan’s voice struck like a clap of thunder. “Look at me.”

White-hot with hatred, Marcus opened his eyes, and as he made eye contact with Volkan he swore the cock in his mouth twitched. Fucking smug piece of shit, good eye gleaming in the firelight, one large hand resting lightly on Marcus’s head, and Marcus was off-kilter with his hands still tied behind his back but fuck it, he was going to finish this. He leaned forward, venomous, taking Volkan deeper, tongue tracing a vein along his length. He had never hated someone more, and he turned that hatred into a twisted passion, because Felicia was bleeding out in a chair and every second he spent indulging this sick bastard was another second she slipped further away from him.

Marcus worked the cock in his mouth by feel, responding to each twitch and throb, tightening his lips, his glare never leaving Volkan’s face. The bastard was so horny, it couldn’t be long now—and there it was, Volkan pressed the back of Marcus’s head and hilted himself down his throat and came. Marcus took it all without a sound, a thin line of saliva connecting his lips to the flaccid cock as it was drawn from his mouth. Volkan tucked himself back in his trousers, and in his face Marcus saw the post-orgasm haze of pleasure that meant his guard was down, that this was their best chance.

Volkan crouched, knees cracking, and brought his gaze to Marcus’s eye level. “You’re fun,” he murmured, good eye tracing the venom in Marcus’s expression. “It’s almost a shame, what I’m going to—”

Marcus slung his head out in a wild headbutt, angling for Volkan’s blind side. It hit with a satisfying crack and a grunt from Volkan, and Marcus was already scrambling back. He was jumbled, still tied up, but his mind already raced ahead; maybe if he could get the knife, or one of those fireplace tools—

Then his world exploded with stars, head cracking against the hardwood floor as Volkan bore down on top of him. He struggled to rise, but Volkan’s hand forced his head into the ground, his eyes watering as he stared into the fireplace. “We’re not done here yet,” Volkan growled in his ear.

Still bearing down his weight, Volkan shifted and began to work at the rope binding Marcus’s legs together. Marcus’s blood froze; and then he redoubled his efforts. “You piece of shit,” he spat, “she’s going to die—”

Then his legs were free, and he pushed himself away before Volkan could make his next move, struggling to his feet with his arms still bound behind him. To his surprise, Volkan let him stand. Marcus braced himself, legs wide, finding his balance. He kept his eyes trained on Volkan, but risked a quick glance at Felicia—face pale, chest fluttering with breath, eyes wide—before fixing his attention on the threat before him. Volkan rose easily, rolling the tension from his shoulders, considering and then he punched Marcus across the jaw.

For all he had been expecting an attack, Marcus was still caught off-guard by the speed with which Volkan struck. The blow sent him staggering, and then he lost his balance and stumbled to the floor. He rolled away, expecting a kick that didn’t come. Instead, Volkan loomed above him, the ghost of a smirk crossing his face. “Get up, boy,” he growled.

Face throbbing, Marcus rose, and when Volkan attacked again, he was ready. He danced out of the way of the next punch, using his momentum to put space between them and buy himself some time. As much freedom of movement as he had, he was useless with his hands still bound behind him. If he could just cut the ropes—he risked another glance at Felicia, the dagger embedded in her abdomen, but fuck, if he messed with that she could just bleed out even faster—and then Volkan landed another blow on his cheek, sending him reeling across the room.

There had to be a way out, but every time Marcus approached it, Volkan struck again. The blows left him unbalanced, unable to focus, if he could just take a minute to catch his breath—but Volkan was relentless. And the worst of it was that even as each blow stunned him and took his breath away, Marcus could tell the man was holding something back. He was toying with him, smiling, probably getting hard again, the bastard. Each punch, each kick left Marcus more and more exhausted, while Volkan was still pristine save the growing bruise on his face where Marcus had landed his headbutt. Furious, desperate, he tried the same maneuver, slinging his head at Volkan’s blind side. He missed, and an elbow to the back of the skull send him sprawling on his stomach, wind knocked from him and the world spinning around him.

Volkan was on top of him again before he could move, and the rough hands at his back began untying his wrists. He couldn’t dare to trust this new freedom, not with Felicia watching with fresh terror, and at the jangle of metal behind him, he barely managed to turn his head and look back over his shoulder. Above him, on top of him, Volkan held two thin metal bangles, twins to the ones Felicia wore, and even with his untuned senses Marcus could feel the prickle of magic gathering around them.

“What are you—” Marcus began, and then Volkan slipped the first cuff around his wrist and he suffocated. No, that wasn’t it—he could breathe, but something was weaving around him, trapping him, threatening to invade, and then Volkan slid the second cuff around his other wrist and—

And he was gone, he couldn’t see Felicia or the room or anything anymore, he was in darkness—

and something ensnared him that he couldn’t understand, something in his mind or soul or whatever the fuck, and he still couldn’t breathe—

and then something that was him or the thing ensnaring him told him to relax, and he did, and the darkness became even darker but he was relaxed, and it didn’t matter that he couldn’t breathe.

***

Felicia was fading. The knife embedded in her stopped the worst of the blood loss, but each pulse of her pounding heart drained more life from her, and she could almost convince herself that the prickling she felt all over was from that and not from the magic Volkan was weaving over Marcus’s unconscious body. The metal cuffs on his wrists gleamed dully in the firelight.

Volkan rose with his same easy smile, poison in his eye. “We’ll give him a minute,” he said with a nod at Marcus as he stepped over to Felicia. She couldn’t look at Volkan, couldn’t take her eyes off her friend’s crumpled form a few unreachable steps from her.

“Volkan, what—ah!” She cut herself off with a sharp gasp of pain as he twitched the knife in her abdomen. He had barely touched it, yet that tiny movement was enough to drive her breath from her, insides twisted and burning and pulsing.

Volkan traced the thin ooze of blood around the blade of the knife. “I hope this hasn’t been too distracting for you,” he murmured, twisting the knife just so and forcing a ragged yell from her strained throat. Her weak fingers gripped the edges of the chair she was bound to, and when he ripped the knife from her body, her vision went white.

She blinked rapidly, and as her vision returned, the first thing she saw was Marcus, unmoved. He could be dead, but for the slow rise and fall of his chest. Volkan probed into her now-freely-bleeding wound and she arched her back, straining to get away. Her blood soaked into the thin dress she wore and pooled into the worn leather of the chair.

When he finally healed the wound, it was with a slow breath that promised more pain to come, and it gave her no relief. Marcus still hadn’t moved. “Volkan, what—what is he—”

“He’ll be fine.” He brushed her hair back with bloodstained fingers, leaving a smear across her cheek. Her body tingled with the lingering absence of pain from the healing, the slow replenishing of blood within her. Willing herself beyond the hopelessness of the situation, she focused her gaze on Marcus, as if the power of her staring would be enough to bring him back.

Then he gasped, and her heartrate redoubled. Marcus twisted on the ground, eyes a bright flash in the light of the fireplace before he shut them again, face turning away. Volkan moved to him and crouched over him with something that could be curiosity. He murmured to Marcus, voice too low for Felicia to make out any words, and then he stood back.

“Marcus, get up,” Volkan said, and Marcus did so. There was blood on his face where Volkan had touched him. Marcus was bleeding as well, a thin trail of blood from his nose mingling with a split lip, and bruises were already forming across his face. For a moment, that was the only damage Felicia could see.

But the longer she stared at him, and he stared back, silent and unmoving, the more her skin prickled. Something in his energy, his stance, was different. His face was blank; even as his eyes bore into hers, they simultaneously looked beyond her, or maybe at nothing. And he was so still. Marcus had never been still in his life.

Something was very wrong.

“What did you do to him?” Her voice was shaking.

“He’s completely fine,” Volkan said. “Marcus, let her know you’re fine. Give her a smile. Wave hello.”

“I’m fine,” Marcus said, in a voice that was and was not his. The corners of his lips turned up in a facsimile of a smile that didn’t reach his eyes; his hand moved in a wave with no feeling behind it.

Felicia recoiled as if he’d slapped her. That couldn’t be Marcus. It moved like a creature wearing Marcus’s skin.

“Volkan. what—” She strained against her bonds, lightheaded with terror. “What did you do?”

“Marcus, slap her in the face.”

Marcus moved as if he were completing some mundane household chore, and then his palm cracked against Felicia’s cheek. It didn’t hurt. There was no force behind it, but neither was there any apprehension. It was a slap.

Volkan moved closer as well, considering. “Harder than that, Marcus,” he chided.

The next slap snapped her face to the side, her ears ringing. Tears sprang to her eyes from the physical shock of it, and Marcus loomed over her, unmoved.

“Punch her in the face.”

“Marcus—” Before she could finish the thought, his fist slammed into her cheek, cracking her head against the back of the chair. “Marcus, Marcus, stop—”

“Keep hitting her until I tell you to stop.”

The blows came at her at random, glancing across her cheek, her shoulder, her jaw. Whenever she blinked the stars from her eyes, she saw Marcus’s face, her best friend, but no, it couldn’t be him. He couldn’t be beating her with that blank look on his face. Each punch rattled deep inside her, driving cracked rivulets through some secure part of her she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding onto. How naive of her, to think there was any part of her being that Volkan couldn’t shatter.

“Marcus, stop.”

Marcus’s arms dropped to his sides, gaze once again focused on nothing. Felicia sucked in a deep breath that turned into a cough that shook her body in fresh pain that sent her into a spasm of gasps, folding in on herself as much as she could with the bindings still holding her tight to the chair. When her vision cleared and she looked up through sweat-damp bangs, Volkan held the same knife he’d stabbed her with.

“Marcus.” He took Marcus’s hand and placed the knife in it, curling each finger around the hilt. “Use this knife to stab yourself in the left eye.”

Marcus’s arm moved as if in slow motion, and Felicia’s heart froze. “Marcus, stop!” The knife drew closer to his face. “Stop, please, Volkan, I’ll do whatever you want, just stop—”

Volkan spoke and rose his hand, and Marcus froze, the knife hovering inches from his face. Volkan’s gaze on Felicia was hungry. “Whatever I want?”

No no no no, she thought, but she bit down the protest. “Yes,” she choked out, “whatever you want, just please, leave him alone, you already have me—”

“I do have you,” Volkan agreed, “and you already do whatever I want. Marcus, do it.”

The knife moved again, and despite herself, Felicia squeezed her eyes shut. A soft sound that might’ve been a grape popping, and a small exhale of breath, and when Felicia peeked out from half-shut eyes, it was done. Marcus stood at ease, knife casually dangling from one hand, freely bleeding from the ruin of his eye. She was going to be sick.

“Marcus…” she began, but there was nothing to say.

Volkan took Marcus’s chin in his hand and turned his head, examining the gore with grisly relish. He took the knife, wiping the blood off on Marcus’s shirt before sheathing it and turning to Felicia. His hands brushed the cuffs holding her, leaving a smear of blood, and with a spark of magic, the bonds were released.

She flexed her wrists, staring up at Marcus in mute horror, unable to move.

She staggered to her feet, but before she could fully rise he kicked her onto her back. She sprawled out, and he slammed his boot onto her shoulder where he’d shot her. He stomped again. Something in her cracked.

It was a dance they’d performed countless times before. Already, the fire in her was fading, smothered by pain and blood loss, but no—she grit her teeth and held on. She was going to lose, but that didn’t mean she had to make it easy for him.

When he snarled a hand in her hair to drag her across the room, she dug useless nails into his skin. He ripped the sleep dress from her body with a single tear, and she lashed naked legs at him as if she could stop him. He threw her onto a metal table like she weighed nothing, and all her wild lashing was nothing as he strapped down her arms and legs.

She was secured, arms pinned, hips at the edge of the table, legs spread, because he was so fucking predictable.

Volkan ran his hands along her bloody body, drawing out the lightest healing from her. It was just enough to prevent her from bleeding out, not enough to truly ease the pain. He’d gotten very good at that level of granular healing.

He considered her, half his face cloaked in blood and shadows, and his silence unnerved her. He hadn’t spoken a single word since bringing her to the basement, where the silence echoed louder than her screams.

Then he stepped behind her and out of her line of vision. She stretched her neck back as much as she could, but restrained as she was, she couldn’t get an angle to see him. She could hear his heavy footsteps, and then the harsh sound of metal on cement: he was dragging something across the floor. Her heart rate tripled.

He returned and stood between her spread legs. The sound of his belt unbuckling was almost a relief, because it was something she understood, something she expected from him. He could rape her a dozen times over, and she would close her mind and bear it.

He thrust into her without ceremony. She was as dry as she’d ever been, tense from pain, and he tore through her like paper. She gasped despite herself as he forced his way deeper, her burning insides contrasting with the unyielding cold of the metal table against her back. Each thrust rocked her, jolting her injuries, splitting her body.

And yet he barely seemed to be taking any pleasure from it. She knew what his pleasure looked like, the endless ways he’d chased it with her suffering, and the way he fucked her now wasn’t about his pleasure at all. It was his attempt to reassert his dominance over her, because in all this time, rape was the only way he knew to take control of a situation. It was pathetic, and he was pathetic, and she was in agony but she didn’t care.

He finished in her with the slightest exhale and pulled out before she could blink, walking again to the blind spot behind her. Again, the heavy sound of metal behind her, and the dread building within her. She breathed heavily, angling again to try to see him, the movement sending a fresh jolt of pain from where he’d fucked her.

When he returned, his eye still held that sharp, focused anger. When his hands touched her body, they were laced with magic, and the air buzzed with it a split second before pain shot through her.

Each touch sent white-hot magic through her like bolts of lightning. He touched her stomach, and her body seized with the electric agony. Her shoulder, her hip, her thigh. With each jolt, she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, her body paralyzed as the current of pure magic ran through her. Then he targeted her most sensitive areas, her nipples, between her legs, because he was a fucking pervert. She couldn’t hold back the scream that broke through as he sent a burst of burning magic through her clit.

She trembled, a thin sheen of sweat covering her body. He had paused at last, but she knew the anticipation would make the next touch sharper than ever. She sucked in a gulp of air, wanting to spit words at him, but it was useless. What would a fuck you, you piece of shit do except highlight her own helplessness? He was pissed, and he wasn’t talking, but she knew him. This was foreplay to him. Whatever was coming next would be much, much worse.

He touched her again and she flinched, but it wasn’t the magic-laced touch of before. Almost tenderly, he wiped down the skin of her shoulder—not the one he’d shot, the other one, where a lifetime ago he’d given her a cigarette burn. The scar of it lingered as a faint white circle, an inverse freckle.

He spoke at last. “Are you familiar with the symbol for failed healing magic?”

She was. It was standardized across all hospitals and clinics, a symbol all aspiring healers learned on their first day in healer’s college. A deceptively simple series of lines and loops, found stamped in medical files to represent failure. An attempt at healing that didn’t take. An injury that was too grave. A healer that wasn’t good enough.

Not trusting her voice, she jerked a nod.

Seemingly satisfied by that, Volkan nodded in return. He reached behind her, and at first her mind couldn’t piece together what she was seeing: the swirled symbol, glowing white-hot. A branding iron.

The heat of it, inches from her, triggered a primal terror. She pressed her body away, chains and metal table digging into her skin. “Volkan—”

“It’ll be worse if you move.” Something of a smile started to creep back into his face—despite everything, he was enjoying her pain, her fear. He loved that he could still get to her.

His free hand pressed into her sternum, holding her in place, and brought the iron down to her bare flesh.

The minute it touched her skin, her vision went white. The burn was worse than any magic he’d used, worse than the cigarette he’d burned her with, worse than anything, and she couldn’t stop her body’s instinctive attempts to twist away from the heat. Even over her screams, she swore she could hear her own flesh sizzling. The meat of her shoulder was melting away, leaving bone, leaving nothing.

He ripped the brand away at last and a bit of flesh went with it; she was on the cusp of hyperventilating. Grabbing her head, he forced her to look at her shoulder, at the mark he’d left. She struggled, and then everything slammed into focus: angry burning skin, hot and red and charred and oozing and agonizing.

He traced a nail along the edge of the burn, and her scream became a sob. “Stop—”

“I haven’t started.”

He released the bindings holding her down and slid her body to the floor. She couldn’t even bring herself to all fours. Everything she’d had in her had left when he ripped the brand from her flesh.

She barely managed to lift her head as he stalked around her and lashed a vicious kick to her ribs, and again, and again. She coughed, gasped, struggled to breathe. In the haze of her vision, he was a blurred mountain looming over her.

Then the bracelets at her wrists hummed with fresh magic, and she flinched against the imminent pain before chains connected to her shackles, dragging her to kneeling, to her feet, to her tiptoes. Stretched and swaying, she couldn’t quite get a solid foothold; when he crowded into her naked body, hands stroking her hips, her attempted kick was weightless.

“If you’re very lucky,” he said, “I will kill you in the next twenty-four hours.”

The terror of his words was there, tight in her chest, threatening to break free—but there was something more beneath the surface. She didn’t want to die, and she had never been as vulnerable as she was in this moment, but neither had she ever been as honest as she was now. She’d drawn something out of him that she’d never seen before, a twisted honesty in turn, and she no longer needed to scrape and appease and make herself small for him.

With nothing else to say, she spat in his face.

He didn’t blink at that, holding her gaze, his own inscrutable, one eye a bloody crater.

The basement door opened.

His expression didn’t change on the surface, but she knew him, and she saw the shifting of miniscule muscles like the shadow of a storm. Behind him, a staff member approached with the air of a man on the gallows. Volkan didn’t turn from Felicia.

“Volkan…” The man placed a cautious hand on Volkan’s arm. He barely went up to Volkan’s shoulders.

“I trust this is incredibly important.” Volkan removed his hands from her at last, and turned to face the man.

“I’m so sorry for interrupting, but…” The man’s voice lowered, and Felicia strained to hear but couldn’t pick up any words.

Volkan’s reaction, however, was unmistakable. His expression changed at last, slowly growing into the smile he’d been missing all night, the smile that chilled her worse than any hate-filled glare.

“Thank you,” Volkan said with genuine warmth, placing a genial hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’ll see to it at once.” His smile broadened as he motioned towards Felicia, pushing the other man in her direction. “Feel free to spend some time with her,” he continued, “and let the others know that she’s available as well. Open for both staff and guest use.”

And without another word, Volkan was gone, leaving Felicia alone with this strange new man. Relief at her presumably-delayed execution curdled with a low-burning dread at what news could’ve brought such a sudden change in Volkan’s demeanor.

The man was nondescript, one of the dozen or so workers in the estate who facilitated Volkan’s rape and torture, and he eyed her now as if he didn’t dare believe his luck. His gaze roamed over her naked body, and then he placed a hand on her breast and she shut her eyes to the inevitable.

“I’m not a sadist, you know,” he said.

Fuck. Not only was he going to rape her, he was going to make her listen to his half-hearted justifications and apologies while he did it. She couldn’t stop him from doing anything he wanted, but she didn’t have to respond, so she kept her eyes and mouth shut. He walked around behind her, and when he trailed a touch over her sensitive nipples, she flinched despite herself. His hushed intake of air at that told her he’d misinterpreted her body’s reaction.

“I’m really not,” he continued, now behind her. “I don’t want to hurt you at all. This doesn’t have to hurt.” The clink of a belt buckle, cold hands on her bare hips. “But I can’t very well turn down a gift from him, can I?”

She didn’t dignify that with a response. The man made a token effort, fingers dancing over her clit, before presumably deciding it wasn’t worth the work to worry about her pleasure. Then the fingers were replaced with his cock, and his hands were on her hips again, and he pulled her back onto him.

The barest arousal he’d managed to wring from her was hardly enough to lubricate his way as he forced himself deeper into her. She grit her teeth against it, already sore from Volkan, now alight with fresh pain. He fucked her with short, rocking thrusts, breathing heavily as if it were some great exertion.

The rape was mundane, after everything Volkan had put her through. If she focused her attention on the sickly sensation of this stranger sliding in and out of her, if she leaned into the slight burn of the everyday pain it brought, she could almost forget the horror of the branding that still pulsed through her like a heartbeat. She could almost forget that Volkan had declared her open for both staff and guest use.

The man finished quickly—or he didn’t drag it out, the way Volkan always did—and then walked back around to her front without another word. She was bare and burning and cold where he’d filled her a second ago, and when he cupped her cheek with a thumb tracing her lips, she shivered. He kissed her almost chastely, and then he was gone before her brain could even come up with the idea to bite him.

He was the first of many to visit her in the basement. Felicia had always had a vague sense that there were others living in the mansion—she knew better than to think Volkan was doing his own cooking and cleaning—but it dizzied her, the number of unfamiliar faces, figures indistinguishable except in their desire to hurt her. They came alone or in pairs, clutching half-drunk beers, slapping her or kissing her, blowing off steam. One made a punching bag of her body. Another took her slowly, fingers working expertly between her legs and coaxing a bitter orgasm from her.

Somehow she ended up on the ground, the world spinning around her, throat still sore from the last visitor. The chains held her still, jangling rudely with each shuddering breath she took, and the brand on her shoulder was a burning stake holding her in place. She sank as low as the chains allowed, pressing her forehead to the cool cement and letting her eyes drift shut.

Then the basement door slammed open, and she heard familiar voices.

She squeezed her eyes tighter, willing them to leave, refusing to acknowledge them even as her muscles tensed in subconscious terror. The voices mingled, three of them, and none of them was Volkan but they all tugged at her memory, dragging her somewhere she didn’t want to go—

“She’s a mess.”

“I like her better this way.”

She’d made them drinks, and they’d used the bottle—and when she could no longer deny it, she opened her eyes and took in the three figures looming over her. Miles, Scott, Victor. The night she’d been forced to entertain them was a lifetime ago, yet the dread of it returned in an instant.

What more could they do to her? She’d been raped, beaten, branded, and anything they added to that would be a drop in the ocean.

But Felicia had yet to find a limit to the cruelty of Volkan and his lackeys.

They circled her, taking in her battered form, the bruises blooming on her skin, the come drying in her hair, the brand spreading tendrils of fire within her. One of the figures crouched beside her—Miles, she could make out the faux-warmth in his eyes and the hunger beneath it.

“If you all lift her up,” he said mildly, “I can get under her.”

She shut her eyes again, tilting her head away from him. “Go away,” she croaked. They ignored her.

“I don’t want her mouth again.” Scott, petulant. “I had that last time.”

“We have all night.” Victor was behind her, already sliding hands down her body to adjust her position. “You don’t have to limit yourself to one hole.”

She was shaking her head, no, but Victor was lifting her up and Miles slid under her, cock already out and hard. He took her hips and guided her onto him as if she were made of glass. She barely felt him inside her. Numb, she let her eyes drift shut again.

A sharp slap to the face, and her eyes flew open. Scott loomed over her, cock in hand. “I want to see her choke on me,” he growled, slapping her again.

From behind her, Victor said, “She’ll bite you off.”

She would. Scott must’ve seen it in her eyes, because when he grasped her jaw with a rough hand and forced her mouth open, it wasn’t his cock but a gag he shoved in her mouth. She bit down anyway, but he was already buckling it around her skull, and the cruel prongs stretched her jaw painfully.

He guided himself into her mouth, and she jerked back instinctively. The motion of it ground her body into Miles, piercing her from below; he let out a breath at that, and she forced herself to hold still, but Scott thrust deeper into her throat, and behind her Victor was pressing against her ass with a practiced efficiency.

She couldn’t breathe. The assault was too much, from all directions, filling her below, above, behind. Victor thrust forward and fully sheathed himself in her ass, and she screamed; the vibrations massaged the cock in her throat, and Scott jerked her forward until her nose pressed into his abdomen; she writhed against him, and Miles gripped her from below and angled his hips and between the three of them she’d never been so full, every molecule of her being suffocating.

They didn’t quite move in tandem, but there was a rhythm to their motions that never fully gave her relief. Miles couldn’t do much from his position, but between him and Victor she was sure she was splitting open. Scott was fucking her face like it was another cunt, his furious pounding leaving her the barest space to catch a breath before it was knocked out of her again from behind. Her vision blurred with tears, and maybe it was better that she didn’t have to see their shitty faces, but it only added to the disorientation.

They fucked her for what could have been hours, or days. Miles finished first, flooding her with a sickly warmth and wriggling out from under her to lean against the wall and sip his drink. Victor finished a minute later with a grip on her hips hard enough to leave bruises. When he pulled out, Scott did as well, sliding from her mouth with a string of saliva. His cock, still erect, bobbed as he walked around her, and across the room Victor was examining the tools lining the wall.

Her jaw ached from the punishing gag, and then as if he’d read her thoughts, Miles was there, drink in hand. He gave a small smile and brushed sweaty bangs back from her face, then tipped his drink into her open mouth.

“This will help,” he murmured, pressing on her forehead and tilting her head back so she was forced to swallow or choke. The burn of the liquor inflamed all her other injuries, heightened the sensation, and with her jaw held open she couldn’t bite down the sob that broke through. Miles softened and reached around her to undo the buckle of the gag. With it loosened, she could finally close her mouth, ignoring the condescending pat on the cheek from Miles as he stepped away—

And fresh pain exploded in her core as Scott thrust into her from behind, hammering into her ass like an instrument of war. She cried out, each movement sending daggers of pain through her body. Where Miles had stepped aside, she could just make out Victor raising a whip. She took in a quick breath, and he brought it down across her breasts.

The pain of it lanced across her, her muscles seizing, and Scott answering her tightness by redoubling his thrusts. The second lash from Victor hit her nipple, drawing blood; the third hit her fresh brand and she screamed.

If she could have passed out, she would have, but some primal part of her brain clung to consciousness. The lights of the room alternated overly bright and dim as her vision wavered. Each strike from the whip was answered with Scott sheathing himself to the hilt inside her. Miles stood to the side, presumably content to palm himself and enjoy the show; Victor wielded the whip like a maestro, each lash precisely placed to torment; Scott ground himself into her and then growled, “Give me that—” and Victor must have known what he wanted, because he didn’t hand over the whip but instead strode over to them and forced the handle of the whip into her cunt and her vision went black.

They took her for several rounds, rotating in and out, switching positions, pulling tools and toys from the wall to use on her sore and shaking body. She hung limply from the chains, jerking whenever they fucked her or hit her or electrocuted her. Even as they finished with her, leaving her in a crumpled heap on the ground, it took several minutes for her body to realize she was alone, for her muscles to stop tensing in anticipation of the next strike.

No one else came down for hours, perhaps. Felicia lay where they’d left her; she had long since given up on trying to find a position to alleviate her suffering. With her cheek resting on the cement, her line of vision spread across the ground, where she could just make out the smears of her own blood in the dim light. The room was silent as a tomb. She was breathing, but everything else about her was shutting down, refusing to perceive. She couldn’t fall unconscious, but maybe she could stop being on some level.

Time must have passed.

The next time the door opened, she knew it was Volkan; the weight and cadence of his footfalls were etched into her very being. The inevitability of it held her down, sunk into her bones. He was going to kill her. Fighting back the bone-deep exhaustion, she forced her eyes open and looked at him. He had cleaned himself, his ruined eye now covered with a thick black patch. With his visible eye, he watched her not with the unbridled rage of before, or even the methodical, controlled anger, but with a mild irritation, as if she were a distasteful household chore.

He considered her a moment, then stepped around her. A heartbeat later, she felt the icy blast of cold water.

He hosed her down with brutal efficiency, directing the spray along her body, in her hair, between her legs. Red and white swirled off of her down the drain in the cement. The spray of the hose was like shards of ice, and she curled in a feeble attempt to protect herself, but he maneuvered around until she was some semblance of clean.

When the hose was shut off, the room was again silent save the steady drop of water from her wet hair and the gurgle of runoff down the drain.

“I truly was planning to kill you.”

She jerked her gaze in his direction at that, shivering and watching him through narrowed eyes. He stepped over to her and crouched at her level, and his hand on her skin was warm.

“I’d do it slowly,” he continued, “take you apart piece by piece.” He tilted his head to consider. “I could stretch it out for four or five days, at least.”

She didn’t have the energy to move away, but she retracted from his touch on a subconscious level. The deadened fury of her gaze landed on the eyepatch. Her voice was a croak. “Next time, I’ll make sure I get your brain.”

He smiled at that, and it chilled her. It was the smile that said he was enjoying himself, he was no longer furious, he no longer saw her as a threat. He had decided he’d won.

“Of course, once I calmed down, I realized killing you would be wasteful.” He pulled out a small towel and began to dry her off. She hissed in pain and flinched as he rubbed up against her bruises, cuts, burns. He ignored her pain and persisted, roughly but not unkindly. “Much better to sell you off to someone and at least recoup some of the investment.”

The tenor of his speech, his self-indulgent monologuing, told her that wasn’t the end of it, and so she waited in silence for him to make his point. He’d set aside the towel and was now running his hands over her in healing, drawing on her to take the edge off the worst of the injuries. He never fully allowed her to give herself over to healing, but allowed the smallest stream through to thwart incoming infection, staunch bleeding, drag her from half-dead to painfully functional. The brand flashed in bright pain and then dulled, marring her skin white on off-white.

The healing left her disoriented as always, her mind dissociating from her body as she struggled to keep up with what had happened to her, and in her daze, he pulled her to her feet with a smile.

“I’ve found something better to do with you.” His smile was full and broad and hateful now. “I’ll be able to get a few more months’ use out of you, at the very least.”

“I don’t want it.” Exhausted, defeated, she barely knew what she was protesting, she just knew she didn’t want to be in a world where he was smiling at her like that. “I’m done. Just stop.”

He ignored her and pulled a slip of a dress over her head, then jerked her forward. “Walk with me.”

She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. But the promise of fresh air beyond the basement called to her, and she followed him up the stairs on unsteady legs before she could stop herself.

Upstairs, the estate was quiet. The darkness outside the windows was the velvet of pre-dawn, and the household staff were nowhere to be seen. She wondered how many of them had come down to fuck her, if they were all sleeping off their partying.

Volkan guided her through the house, the short walk down the hall an exertion after hours (days?) spent in chains. The rug was soft as a cloud on her bare feet, and the warmth of the mansion thawed the deep-seated chill in her bones. When they finally reached the room Volkan was looking for, Felicia felt the faintest stirring of strength within herself, and braced herself to turn whatever he had against him.

He opened the door, and she blinked as her eyes adjusted to the lighting—the room was spacious, a few seats were arranged around an open area in the middle, a fire was lit, and kneeling in front of it—

“Marcus,” she breathed, and the world shifted beneath her feet.

He looked up at the sound of her voice, and the cocky defiance on his face was wiped in an instance: replaced with rage, heartbreak, horror, love.

She crossed the room in a few steps and threw herself at him, arms wrapped tight around him. He was warm and kind, and he couldn’t be there. He wasn’t supposed to be there.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, leaning his head into her. He was bound, she realized, arms and legs twisted and forcing him into a kneeling position. She held him tighter.

“You can’t be here,” she whispered, voice breaking. Everything she’d been through was meant only for her. He couldn’t be in this world. Her heart was hammering with terror, defeat.

It had really frightened her. The lost time and the loss of herself. It went against who Ivy was supposed to be. Ivy wondered if Felicia felt the same way when she disappeared, but Ivy didn’t know who Felicia was meant to be, all she knew was who Felicia was when she was there. 

Felicia had a quiet kind of strength. A firm set mouth when she was concentrating and the steady hands of a healer, eyes burning with determination whenever Ivy’s started to die, a small whisper of a voice in the quiet drowning darkness whenever Volkan mercifully left them together, hope pounding in her heart so hard Ivy swore sometimes she could hear it. Sometimes, they were alone together long enough they felt like real girl-friends, joking at Volkan’s expense while he was out of the house until they were grabbing their sides in stitches, sharing salacious stories of sex and college, things Ivy had stolen when she was a teen, secrets Felicia had only ever told her girlfriend Elyse, Ivy gently brushing tangles from Felicia’s hair and weaving braids to keep it neat, if just for a little while. 

That Felicia was what Ivy lived for. And when she was gone, Ivy ached. It was lonely standing beside someone empty. And Felicia had been gone since yesterday. She’d smile and nod, replying convincingly enough when Ivy had a moment alone with her, but her eyes were hauntingly dim, and Ivy knew better than to press it. Drawing attention to it would only be blood in the water for Volkan, who loved to pry until they reacted just how he liked – breaking them down to husks and then jabbing at them until they bit back just so he could restart the cycle. 

Now, Volkan struck Felicia so suddenly and so hard that Ivy actually gasped. She pretended not to notice the way his eyes flickered over her, a rush at her shock, her rare instant of vulnerability. His gaze burned a welcome hole in her back as she played her part, willingly and honestly, reaching for Felicia’s hand to steady her as Felicia wobbled on one knee. 

Ivy brushed strands of hair from Felicia’s face, a red mark already flaring on her cheekbone where his knuckles caught her, eyes unfocused and eerily dry of tears. Ivy gave her a look, something she hoped would connect with the Felicia buried deep inside, and helped her to her feet. 

Then, when Felicia was steady, fingertips absently tracing her bruising – maybe broken – cheekbone, Ivy turned on her heel and spat. It struck him on the chest, wetting his white button-up, and Ivy already knew he didn’t care. He’d have her blood up to his elbows by the time he was done with her, whether she behaved or not. He smiled at her, that infuriating, hungry, charmed smile. Fighting all of her instincts before she lost her nerve, Ivy grabbed at his tie with her right hand and pulled, swinging at his chin with her left. It connected with a satisfying crack, but she could feel from the buzzing in her knuckles that it hadn’t been enough. It never would have been. And now he would hurt her, as he had hurt her yesterday, as he likely would tomorrow, as he would again and again until he was tired of this game they played and finally let her die.

She stepped back, shaking so hard she vibrated where she stood, teeth chattering with rage and hate and fear. Every atom was telling her to flee, but Felicia was rocking on her feet, staring at the floor with glassy eyes, so Ivy bunched her fists and blinked back tears and waited for it to start.

Volkan took his time appraising her, saying nothing, letting her terror marinade until he shifted and she flinched. 

The first hit always surprised her, despite how many she’d endured at his hands, it always threw her. But a crack to the head was like nothing else, the floor and ceiling switching places, ears ringing and metal in her mouth while she blinked, dazed and lost until he had her pinned by the throat and took his time with her. He had a way of waiting until her consciousness came back before he pushed her further, and Ivy was willing to play her part and scramble in his grip. 

She clawed at his hand around her throat, lashing out with her legs, bare feet bouncing off his shins until he pinned her under his weight and took her wrist easily in his grip, twisting slowly, agonizingly slowly until she screamed just how he wanted, long and desperate, actually managing to say “please,” before he snapped it. 

She sobbed then. His weight shifted and he was over her, his shoe colliding hard with her ribs, sending her rolling, gasping silently, wrist alight with white fire, her vision blurring much too soon. When she found her breath, she didn’t want it, her ribs made sharp, stabbing into her, her mouth getting wet and slippery with blood. 

“I hate you,” she gurgled out for no reason in particular, a trickle of blood running from the corner of her mouth down her chin, landing hot along her collarbone. 

He loomed over her with an expression that could have been pity or amusement before snaking a hand in her hair and wrenching her up to a strained sitting position, stabilizing herself with her intact hand, trying not to wince at the pull in her neck, the shifting of her ribs. 

Felicia was somewhere in her peripheral vision, a wash of pale cream and burnt orange, a blur of light brown speckles whenever she shifted in the light. Ivy fought the urge to cast her a glance, to search for her expression, to see if this brief reprieve was enough to bring her friend back, because god it was so lonely doing this without her. 

Then Volkan swung another fist at her face and she stopped caring about anything beyond breathing. He’d hit her and he’d wait. He’d break her ankle and let her scream. He pressed his shoe into her wounds, slowly and forcefully until she was delirious with pain, coughing and choking hard on her blood, sick with the metal taste, trying to turn over for just one gulp of clean air, trapped in the prison of her own body, wet with sweat and blood, clothing ripped where he wanted it, roaming hands exploring wounds, a knife slowly nestling itself in her thigh until she was sure she was going to black out and maybe never wake–

“Felicia.” 

He said it almost warmly, somewhere far away, and Ivy waited that familiar eternity until Felicia appeared over her in a blur, her cold, soft hands finding her shoulders, and the hard hum of magic starting through her. 

They both shuddered as one, Ivy’s wounds knitting themselves closed, her bones snapping into place and fusing back together, the wound in her thigh burning and tightening as the muscle reincorporated itself, and Felicia suffered the phantom pain as if her own body had endured each and every hit. 

Then her hands were gone. Ivy only caught a glimpse of her face, her expression still vacant, her friend hardly there.

Then, Volkan started again. 

It might have been days spent there on the floor, her will weakening as Volkan broke her body in new, exciting ways. Sometimes he only used his hands, sometimes it was just the knife, he shot her twice in a row when she started losing her spark, and Felicia returned each time, hovering over her with healing hands, her face slowly growing more desperate, tears starting in her eyes, her friend waking to a nightmare. 

Ivy could hardly care by then, even healed, her body was shuddering violently, she was weak and disappearing, going away somewhere inside herself, somewhere it was safer to shut her eyes and sob. If he did it again, there might be nothing left of her. But he did anyway, almost kindly, snapping each of her fingers like they were pencils, savoring the way they cracked and the way Ivy whined like a kicked dog until he was done with her.

“Leave her,” Volkan said when he left Ivy there, Felicia automatically stepping forward. 

“Don’t you think that’s enough?” Felicia snapped.

Ivy sat cross-legged, blinking at her misshapen fingers, hissing through her teeth, wanting to lay down and die, wishing Felicia would shut up, wishing Felicia would keep talking and take this horrible attention somewhere else. 

“It is enough,” Volkan agreed, and Ivy wanted to sob with relief, but she had no tears left, no joy either. There was nothing in her anymore. Maybe there never would be again.

Time was easily lost in those early days, when Vienna didn't realize yet what a tether to sanity it was. Entire days could be slept away, her mind and body giving into the numb oblivion they so desperately craved until she was roused by the sound of his footsteps coming down the stairs. Sometimes after he left, she'd be so enveloped by panic that she could spend hours sobbing and gasping for breath without any notion of how many minutes had passed.

Some mornings she clung to the idea that maybe he would kill her after all — the thought came with a guilty rush of relief, though she hated herself for wanting it. Other mornings she willed herself to be numb, to drift somewhere outside her body, because that was the only way to survive his hands, his words, the endless cycle. It didn't work nearly as often as she wanted it to.

Survival meant she had to learn a new language. One she never wanted to know — Alec's. Not in the way of words, necessarily, but of footsteps, of tone, of actions. She learned to brace herself for anger and fists when his feet came down the stairs hard. She learned when it was okay to push back at him, when it would amuse him, and when it would just earn her punishment. But sometimes it felt like it was a learning curve she could never catch up to.

The energy in the air changed before she could even blink. One moment they were sitting, almost normal, as he ranted about his day — and then he was on her, yanking her hair, pinning her wrists, pulling at her clothes. "Wait — wait —" she cried, completely caught off guard. He didn't care. He shoved her face into the mattress, muffling her scream as he tore into her with no preparation. Panic spiked as she couldn't breathe for a moment, and she gasped for air as he flipped her over. But it was only to shove into her again, hands holding her in place as he forced a suffocating kiss onto her lips.

The weekends were different.

There was no clock to count down, no sound of him leaving for work in the morning. He stayed. Hours stretched and folded in on themselves, and she stopped trying to guess how long it had been.

What lingered with her was the way he seemed almost lighthearted. He laughed easily, whistled under his breath, narrated his own enjoyment as if he were sharing a private joke. The sound of her crying never slowed him down. If anything, it seemed to give him more energy.

What unnerved her the most was that nothing about it felt secret or shameful to him. He wasn’t hiding. He wasn’t angry. He was having fun. And she was the toy — not just her body, but her mind, too.

He was making noises deliberately to humiliate her. She knew that. She knew that. But still, Vienna couldn't help but grimace and choke out a sob as Alec moaned, the sound reverberating against her chest. His mouth made a sloppy smacking sound against her skin, and she felt nauseous. "P-please just stop —" she tried to beg, and the groan turned into an outright laugh. "Stop? Oh, sweetheart. Hours before that word matters. I’ll enjoy every second. And it's not like it hurts this time, right?" His hand wedged between their hips, to the stickiness on them both, and shame surged so hot another sob burst out. He laughed again, a grotesque loop as he lowered his lips back to her skin. Every movement was excruciatingly slow, giving them both time to drink it all in.

The television, of all things, became her lifeline. Its flickering light and constant hum were a poor substitute for company, but it was better than silence. She watched everything — sitcoms, game shows, sports, documentaries, infomercials she could recite by heart. For a few hours each day, she could pretend she was somewhere else, anywhere else. The news was harder. She was hit with something that was equal parts dread and longing when her name came up. If he knew it was coming, Alec would invariably be in the basement to watch with her — watching the reporters talk about her “mystery disappearance,” watching her parents’ pleas for answers, watching her watch it all.

He loved boasting about how lost the authorities were, how he'd outsmarted them all. He'd sprinkle in memories of watching Vienna before she'd ever known he existed — so many instances she never knew about, she thought he must be lying, but then he'd drop in a detail, a gut punch that told her it must be true. How she bit her lip while she studied in the library. How she'd worn a blue and green sundress to Zander's last basketball game. How she'd dropped her books one time in the cafe and she and Abi had both bent down to pick them up. Every last thing he'd imagined. And how he could do it all now.

SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. Alec was hitting her hips again and again, in time with his thrusts, and Vienna was sure her skin must be glowing bright red by now. "Please - it h-hurts-" Vienna gasped, stumbling over her words as she realized the admission would just spur him on. And it did. "Good!" he snarled, slapping her again and then holding onto the red flesh, digging his nails into her. "I can beat you black and blue, bitch. All while you fucking beg me to stop."

She quickly learned that for Alec, it wasn't just about the sex. Not only that, anyway. It was about him reveling in his complete control over her, breaking her down over and over, doing whatever he pleased that pushed her to that space that left her crying, begging, screaming.

The rapes almost always brought those reactions out, except on the rare, blessed occasions she was able to dissociate the entire time. But Alec seemed to like to switch things up. Some days he seemed more interest in maximizing any type of violation for her, whether he got physical pleasure from it or not. Other times, it was all about the pain. Vienna began to have visceral reactions whenever he approached the closet doors in the main room, knowing exactly what its doors held. Minutes and sometimes even hours would drag, his laughter and taunts mingling with her cries and pleas like it was the most natural thing in the world. And it always had the same ending: Alec dragging her to one of the beds, or set of restraints, or even just the floor to cap off the day.

Oftentimes, his words were the worst - crude, mocking, smug, unbearably satisfied. They wormed their way into Vienna's head more deeply than any physical torment, ringing in her ears long after he'd left.

"Tastes perfect, feels perfect…. just like I imagined. God, it's like you were made for me." She felt his breath against her skin, making her feel trapped in ways the restraints never could. A sob ripped from her throat, legs shaking, trying to close, and his laugh vibrated between her legs. "That's right. Just like that. Let's see how much more you can take."

At the end of the day, it was hard to decide what was the most painful. Being torn from her loved ones, being treated like nothing more than a plaything, the physical intensity she was forced to endure again and again. But it may have been the way Alec crushed what she knew of the world beneath his fingers. The way he reacted to her tears, her fear, her pain with pure delight shocked Vienna every time, each laugh and taunt made the world shake around her. She had never known a person could be this way.

During the most intense moments, when his laughs and taunts bounced off the walls amidst her screams and pleas, she had trouble reconciling that it was her own voice mixing with his. It sounded nothing like her own, more like a clip from a horror movie, a scene taken from a nightmare. And she knew he loved that.

It was like being buried alive, over and over and over again, and still somehow waking up the next morning. Truthfully, she had no idea how she survived it. The simplest answer was that she had no other choice.

She tried to plead, to beg, but her words slurred with exhaustion. Her throat was raw from screaming, and still he demanded more. “Beg louder,” he growled happily against her. “I want to hear you choke on it. Tell me how bad you want me to stop.”

“I can’t — I c-can’t —” she sobbed, her voice barely there.

“Yes, you can. You can, and you will. You’ll do it all day long for me, little girl.”

One thing became clear: Vienna's life was not her own anymore. She fought the idea that it was ruled by Alec — by his moods, his hands, his visits — but every day he seemed committed to driving her deeper into despair, into helplessness. An average day before might have been going to class, eating a meal with Zander, watching TV with Abi. Now, it was anticipating footsteps above her, counting the minutes until his weight shifted off her, singing songs or sketching landscapes in her head to try and push through the pain and pure violation that had become her daily life.

It was mornings like this. Alec had come down for his usual visit before work. He was in a good mood today, practically giddy, but it didn't make things any better for her. No, instead it meant he wanted to play a game: forcing her to beg for him to stop before clapping his hand over her mouth again and again, enjoying the way her words got muffled against his palm.

"Try again." He grinned, rocking his hips. Humiliated tears streamed from Vienna's eyes as she stammered, "P-please - please stop - it's almost been an hour, you're going to be late for work, please just — mmph!"

Alec laughed, an ugly, delighted sound. "Ohh, I'd be pretty unhappy with that. And you'd be to blame, wouldn't you? You better help me finish quick."

He moved off of her then, took his hand off her mouth, but there was no relief. She knew by now what those words meant.

Ten minutes later, he was finally getting dressed, splashing water on his face at the bathroom sink before heading off to work like nothing had happened. Vienna stayed curled on her knees, arms wrapped herself as the footsteps faded away above. Her new favorite noise sounded: the mechanical scrape of the garage door opening and closing overhead. He was finally gone for the day.

The basement was cold. Her body was wrung out, trembling with the raw, heavy weight of what had just happened. She hated that she could feel every trace of him lingering, that her muscles remembered in ways she didn’t want them to. She felt miserable, used up, like a shell of herself.

But after a few minutes, she took a breath. Sat herself up. At least it was a weekday. At least she had the blessed reprieve of Alec being gone for a few hours. At least her body had a moment to recover. She should take advantage.

The shower was scalding, how she liked it now. In her mind, she organized what her day would be like. Whether it was sane or insane, she couldn't tell, but she had started breaking her days down by hours, themes. Each hour correlated with someone from before. A reminder that life outside these walls existed.

Every morning after he was gone started with a mom hour. Vienna would take meticulous care of herself, even when she wanted to tear off her own skin. She would shower, gently brush her hair, sometimes braid it like her mother did when she was little. Then she'd wash the soiled sheets, remaking the bed with slow, deliberate care, no wrinkles. Clean the bathroom or kitchenette. Try to tell herself one kind thing her mom might say if she were here.

After that was a dad hour. She'd find something to eat, think about what she would have for lunch or dinner. It wasn't possible to really cook like her dad liked to — classic Filipino dishes or cozy baked goods weren't doable with the kitchenette — so oftentimes she'd just pretend, even narrating out loud as if she was on a cooking show. She ate slowly, mindfully, trying to notice flavors or textures she hadn't noticed before. Some days it all tasted like ash.

Next might come an Abigail hour. She'd watch TV. Vienna had almost laughed when she came up with this one, imagining Abi's playful indignation. What, that's the first thing that comes to mind?! But there was a comfort to it, a familiarity nothing else in the basement gave her.

Nearly every day, she did a Zander hour. She'd sit at the table and read, whatever Alec would give her. It didn't really matter what. What was more important was the steadiness of it, how much it reminded Vienna of Zander. Sometimes she'd try to imagine what he might say about a scene, or read a passage in his voice. Even more often she'd stroke her own hair while reading and try to imagine it was him.

And there were plenty of others, too. A Kaya hour — Vienna would do light exercises, trying to give her body some other function. A Daniela hour — she'd play cards by herself, make up new games. A Jay hour — she'd put a random sport on the TV and try to learn the rules.

Anything that made her feel human. Anything that kept her from thinking about what was coming again soon.