Shattered Innocence

XVI

Death
*THE TWISTED VOICES***
25 years old.

The thrill of her submission wrapped around me like a thick, suffocating fog. I could hear the frantic beating of her heart, a beautiful cadence that resonated with my own madness. Every moment spent watching her bleed, every flicker of fear in her eyes, deepened the hunger inside me. The voices in my head urged me on, demanding I draw more blood, to create a pool of crimson that would reflect the beauty of our bond.

More, more. Make her bleed.

I could feel the energy of their twisted desires coursing through me, feeding off my dark cravings. Show her what she is. Make her embrace the pain.

But I held back, my grip tightening on the knife, a visceral reminder of the power I wielded. It was intoxicating, feeling her pulse beneath my fingers, the warmth of her blood contrasting with the cold steel. I didn't want to break her completely; I wanted her to bend to my will, to embrace the darkness I offered.

Don't stop now. Draw it out. She needs to see how deep this can go.

With a sudden surge of desire, I lifted her, cradling her against my body as I moved toward the dimly lit room that had become our sanctuary—a place where I could shape her into my perfect creation. Her blood stained my hands, but it was a mark of ownership, a promise of what was to come.

You can make her love you. Just a little more pain, a little more blood.

As I set her down, I could see the uncertainty swirling in her eyes, the flicker of hope and despair battling within her. "You will learn to love the blood, my little girl," I whispered, my voice a low murmur that wrapped around us like a cocoon. "And after that, you will learn to love me too."

Lily
*I SHOULD CUT MY HAIR OFF***
17 years old.

He carried me back to the room, the metallic scent of blood filling the air—my blood, smeared on my cheek and neck where his knife had kissed me. The wounds still stung, the sharp reminder of his cruelty throbbing with each beat of my heart. The blood trickled down, staining my collarbone, a vivid contrast to the pale skin that now bore his marks.

He laid me on the bed with a possessive gentleness, his touch too soft for the brutality that came before. My body was trembling, adrenaline still coursing through me from the violence, from the overwhelming terror that hadn't yet released its grip.

I wanted to scream, to lash out, to do something, anything, but my strength was gone. He had taken it all—along with my freedom, my will, my safety. He stood over me, his eyes dark with a satisfaction that made my stomach churn.

As I tried to pull away, he closed the space between us, reaching down to brush my hair out of my face, his fingers trailing down to my bloody cheek. "You're bleeding," he murmured, his voice low and almost tender. "My little girl, marked by me."

I turned my head, trying to escape his touch, but he grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. "Don't turn away from me," he said, his voice hardening. "You belong to me now. Every part of you."

Before I could protest, his lips crashed down on mine—harder, hungrier than before. It was only the second time he had kissed me, but this kiss was more possessive, more desperate than the first. His hands gripped me like I was something fragile he could break, but he was also staking his claim, leaving no doubt in my mind that I was his. I tried to resist, to push him away, but it was like pushing against a wall. He wasn't giving me a choice.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes gleamed with a twisted satisfaction. "You're mine, Lily. Every inch of you. And soon, you'll love it. You'll love me."