Diamond Kisses (The Jewelry Box #4)

“Not running?” Victor pouted. “Come now, Henri. Shooting you point blank isn’t very sporting.”

I sighed heavily as every Master armed themselves and crowded the podium. Muzzles of their guns pointed at my very naked, very vulnerable body.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Peter hunching in his chains and Ily straining to get to me.

I had to give it to Victor.

He knew people. And he knew weakness.

Ily didn’t step out of line for fear that her actions would hurt Peter, and I didn’t step out of line because I would never hurt her again. We condemned each other to hell through love.

Balling my hands, I stood straight and glowered at Victor.

“One last chance.” Victor cocked his head with a smirk. “Run and Ilyana can wear these bruises.” He sniffed as he took in the state of me. “After all, you’re already wearing quite a few.”

I gritted my teeth and didn’t reply.

“Come on, Vic. Enough dilly-dallying. Can I shoot?” a Master in the shadows asked.

Victor took his time, but finally, he nodded as if he’d agreed to a quiet luncheon. “By all means.” Throwing me a look, he added, “Seeing as you didn’t run, Henri. I suggest you get very good at staying still. If you so much as twitch, I’ll put Ilyana in your place. If you scream, I’ll make her scream twice as loudly. Ready?”

I barely had time to brace before the Masters fired—

* * * * *

I lost count how many colours layered me that night.

How much pain ricocheted through my abused frame.

How Roland shot me with blue, and Ian with green, and the ballroom of men pummelled me with a vicious, violent rainbow.

Somehow, I didn’t move.

I could’ve run.

I wanted to goddamn run.

But if I moved a fucking step, Ily would replace me.

I’d have to watch her flawless skin transform with a million new bruises.

And I couldn’t do it.

And so, I stayed.

And I hurt.

Victor was the last to shoot me.

He stepped onto the stage, slipping in paint splashes, his black shoes treading garish colour wherever he went.

With a sick chuckle, he shot me right in the cock with a neon pink bullet.

I woke up in the beige and black room.

Dr Belford at my bedside and something cool and comforting between my throbbing legs. “He’s lost his damn mind,” she whispered, shooting me full of anti-inflammatories and another dose of her wonderful cocktail of peace and energy. “I’ve always suspected he was mentally unstable, but what he’s doing to you—” She cut herself off. Packed up her supplies. And left.

I faded.