TORTURE, SUPERNATURAL

ꜱᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴇᴇɴ. ᴅᴇᴀᴅʟʏ ᴅᴇᴀʟ

I stand in the shower for what feels like hours.

The water is scalding hot, yet it can't quite burn off the filth I feel crawling over my skin. Blood, dirt, and fear swirl down the drain in pink rivulets. I press my hands against the tiled wall, letting the steam wrap around me like a veil, hoping it might soften the ache in my bones.

It doesn't.

My scalp stings as I drag my fingers through my tangled hair. Beneath the heat, bruises bloom across my body, reminders of hands too rough and a fight I didn't win. My eyes sting, but I refuse to let tears fall.

I know what tonight is. Dinner with the devil. Literally.

I can't help but wonder what'll be on the menu. Human flesh? A live heart? After everything I've seen in this twisted palace, I wouldn't be surprised. I wish I could laugh about it. I can't.

Eventually, I force myself to shut off the water.

The bathroom, like the rest of Crowley's hellish manor, is drenched in red. Red tiles, red towels, red light filtering from a chandelier that casts long, blood-tinted shadows across the floor. Even the mirror is rimmed in crimson, reflecting a woman I barely recognize.

A vase of roses sits neatly on the sink.

I stare at them, chilled.

Are they meant for me? A twisted token of hospitality? Or does he keep a fresh bouquet in every room, for every prisoner, every conquest?

I don't want to know.

My torn dress lies in a heap by the bed, shredded and useless. I didn't bring clothes, yet at the foot of the bed—almost mockingly—a large, carved trunk waits. I open it hesitantly. It's full of women's clothes in every style and cut, and of course, the sizes match mine perfectly.

My stomach turns.

He planned this. He planned me.

I choose jeans and a black tank top—simple, tight, and defensive. Armor. As I dress, my eyes catch on the mirror again. I freeze.

A purpling handprint wraps around my throat like a collar.

My hands shake as I touch it. The bruise is sore, a stain left by the invisible force that pinned me down. Another reminder. My arms bear older marks—slender red lines, scars waiting to form. I look tired. Hollow. Broken.

No. Not broken. Not yet.

I wipe at my face, grit my teeth, and pull my hair over my shoulder. I can't fall apart. I need to find a way to warn Sam and Dean. I will get out of here. Somehow.

A knock at the door startles me.

Dinner.

I move slowly to the door, hesitating before I open it. On the other side stands a boy—young, smiling, neat hair and a pressed little suit. A child's body with demon eyes. Jet black and gleaming.

"Master Crowley has requested your presence at dinner," he says, sweetly. "Please follow me."

I follow him down the hallway. The walls are the same suffocating red, the carpet plush beneath my bare feet. The deeper we go, the darker it becomes. My chest tightens with each step.

When the boy pushes open the ballroom doors, I stop in the threshold.

It's not the same room I danced in.

Gone are the chandeliers and golden trim. In their place is darkness, thick and decadent. Candles float mid-air, casting flickering shadows over a massive dining table that stretches across the space like something out of a gothic fairytale. Rich velvet curtains have replaced the windows. The air smells like cloves and wine and something faintly metallic.