Tori
Tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me break. The branding feels like it lasts an eternity, the heat boring into me, a grotesque symbol of his control.
Finally, he pulls the iron away, leaving behind an ugly, raw mark. “There,” he says, his voice almost tender as he examines his work. “Perfect.”
He sets the iron aside and retrieves a small first-aid kit from the drawer, opening it with practiced efficiency. His movements are calculated, clinical, as he dabs ointment onto the burn. The coolness offers little relief, the pain still radiating through me like waves.
“You’ll want this to heal properly,” he says, his tone calm, as if he’s discussing a mundane injury. “Wouldn’t want to mar that pretty skin too much.”
I
