COURTNEY ||18+||

~Chapter 4~

EDITED🤍

I feel nauseous, on the verge of vomiting the little I have in my stomach. Dread washes over me repeatedly, and my palms press firmly against his broad back. I stay still, afraid that even the slightest movement might provoke another stinging slap.

I thought I had come to terms with fear, that I had experienced all it had to offer. I believed pain no longer frightened me and that I could endure anything.

I was wrong.

When we finally reach his bedroom, I lunge at him, hugging him tightly. I'd rather not face him, knowing he might kill me. I prepare myself by closing my eyes and clinging to him, hoping to avoid the moment of impact. Having been alone my entire life, I don't want to die alone. Even if it's my killer's warmth, it brings me a measure of comfort.

"Let me go, Courtney," he hisses, shoving me away with such force that I land on the bed, bouncing twice before steadying myself.

"Please, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to," I plead, kneeling on the bed, hands clasped together. But he merely gives me a sinister smirk, his amusement absent, as he begins to unbutton his shirt.

"Strip," he commands, and my heart nearly stops. Not again, please.

"Please, please, I'm sorry," I beg once more.

He yanks me off the bed to stand before him, gripping my neck tightly but not enough to cut off my airflow. He brings my face close to his, our breaths mingling.

"This should be the last time I repeat myself. You wouldn't like what I'm going to do to you. I swear to God, I'll fuck you up. Understand?" he asks, his voice cold and menacing. I nod quickly, more fear seeping in.

"Words," he demands.

"Yes, yes, I... I understand," I choke out.

"Good. Now strip," he says, releasing me and stepping back, his gaze intense as he watches me.

My trembling hands move to unbutton his shirt, which I'm wearing since he insisted mine were hideous. His shirt is so oversized that it's nearly comical, but I've long stopped caring. My tears have dried as I remove my inner vest, feeling self-conscious compared to the other women on this train. They have ample chests, while I don't even need a bra.

I remember one of the women scoffing at me during our shared bath yesterday. Her laughter stung, especially with my scars, but she seemed oblivious to them.

"Stop testing my patience," he growls through gritted teeth, jolting me back to the present.

I strip off my last piece of clothing and, unlike before, cross my arms over my chest, avoiding his gaze.

"On the bed," he orders, moving to the side of the bed and rummaging through a bag. I climb onto the bed, dreading what's to come.

He returns, taking my wrists and locking them in handcuffs. I look at him with pleading eyes, but all I see in his is anger. I'm doomed.

"Lay down," he says, arranging equipment on the bed. I observe the items, most of which are unfamiliar, except for a small, sharp-looking knife.

He picks up an egg-shaped device and turns it on, a vibrating sound filling the room.

"Here's what we're going to do: you will open your legs wide for me. Any attempt to close them will result in pain," he says. I nod, but his glare makes me quickly say, "Yes."