Chapter 1: Nightmare
Note: This series is a darker werewolf series not following the usual "plot" of fated mates.
Be aware of darker elements such a described violence, s****l abuse and death.
Also if you easily get affected by reading about s****l abuse in any way, I recommend you do not read the text written in italic.
-Evan-
Only a few candles illuminate the dark room around me. It’s cold, but I hardly notice. I tug at the chains once more, but they remain unyielding. They are crafted specifically for me. I’m splayed out on what appears to be an altar, though it is used for nothing sacred—only for my torment and her pleasure.
I pull at the chains again, just as I hear the all-too-familiar sound of the door opening and the click of her red heels. She adores that color. Red. Her hair is dyed a deep crimson, like blood. Her lips match, and she always wears that repugnant red see-through robe that barely covers anything.
I loathe the sight of it, as much as I detest her presence. I sense her before I see her—her hand gliding over my bare shin, travelling up to my thigh, deliberately avoiding my c*ck, thank the Goddess, before reaching my torso. She stops just before me, her cruel smile evident.
“I’ve missed you,” she says.
Her words make me growl lowly, filled with revulsion. I had hoped that after four days apart, she might be finished with me, but I was mistaken. After a brief respite, I was taken from my cell and brought here by other strong men—to her so-called playroom, which is nothing more than a torture chamber for me. The horrors she has inflicted upon me in this room are beyond description.
She trails her long, red-painted nails across my skin, raising goosebumps. I want to lash out and bite her hand off, but it’s not just my wrists and ankles restrained by the strong metal. A collar around my neck ensures I cannot harm her. I want to hurt her. I want this torment to end.
“What shall we do today?” she asks, smiling down at me.
I don’t respond. I merely stare into her eyes, which earns me a sharp slap. The pain is barely noticeable now. She has numbed me with her cruelty. Yet, I have no one to blame but myself.
“You do not look directly at me, do you hear me, slave?” she demands.
I hate when she calls me that. I haven’t heard my own name in what feels like months—though the exact time is irrelevant. I’ll never escape this hell until she loses interest, and that has yet to happen.
She drags her nails over my skin again, piercing it slightly and drawing blood. I bite down hard, determined not to give her the satisfaction of hearing me scream. She moves her nails back and forth, leaving long, painful scratches.
“That’s better,” she purrs. “Now everyone can see you’re mine.”
Who exactly? This is her private dungeon. Who would see it? She leans closer, her arms caging me in by pressing against each side of my face. Despite her thin frame, her large breasts dangle in front of me, but I feel nothing but disgust at the sight of them.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to visit you,” she says with a sickly sweet tone. “But my other life also demands my attention.”
I turn my head away, ignoring her, but she doesn’t tolerate it. She places her hands on the sides of my face and forces me to look at her. Her smile is nauseating as she leans even closer, her breath grazing my lips and making me feel close to vomiting.
“But I will make it up to you,” she whispers.
I know she wants to lean in and kiss me, but it would be foolish—being so close to my teeth is a bad idea. Instead, she pulls away and turns, walking out of my line of sight. I try to lift my head to see where she’s going, but the collar restricts my movement.
All I can do is listen to her footsteps echo in the darkness. My pulse quickens with anticipation and fear, as I have no idea what new form of torture she has planned.
“What shall we do today?” she hums.
I shiver, unsure if it’s the cold or her voice—or perhaps both. I hear her approaching, a delicate knife in her hand. It’s not very large, but the handle is intricately carved with spirals, giving it an almost artistic appearance. I know, however, exactly what she intends to do with it.
She climbs on top of me, and every part of my body screams to escape. I try to move, but the chains hold me firmly in place. Why me? I know the answer, but it doesn’t make it any easier. In a slow, seductive manner that would surely excite any male not restrained like me, she removes her robe.
Beneath it, she’s adorned with small golden chains that wrap around her body in an elaborate, provocative pattern, accentuating her curves. I want to close my eyes, but I know that would only make things worse. She runs her hand down my chest, spreading my blood around and purring at the sight. I’m on the verge of vomiting.
She finally places the blade just above my heart. I swallow hard, knowing that a single press could drive it into my heart. I silently beg her to do it, desperate for this torment to end. But she doesn’t.
Instead, she barely pierces my skin before dragging the knife downwards in a long, agonizing line. Pain erupts across my body like a firework, sweat beads on my skin, and I struggle to keep from screaming. The knife must be laced with some kind of poison. The sting turns into a searing burn.
I want to beg her to stop, but she thrives on that and I refuse to give her the satisfaction. She finally lifts the knife and brings it to her lips, her tongue darting out to lick the blood off. Disgusting doesn’t even begin to cover it.
I hear her hum in satisfaction, and then she leans down, tracing the trail of blood with her tongue. My skin crawls as if something is moving beneath it, and I yearn to escape, but I’m trapped.
“Mmm, delicious,” she purrs.
I can’t bring myself to look at her. I feel so dirty and wrong. The warmth from her p***y, just above me, is clear, and I can feel the slick running down onto my lower body. I can’t get hard anymore. She’s broken me, and it has left me shattered, but that doesn’t concern her. She can find other ways to arouse me.
“I want to play longer,” she pouts, “but I want you too badly.”
She climbs off me and goes to fetch some of her numerous mixtures and jars. I still don’t know what’s in all of them, but I’m familiar with the effect of at least one. She brings a small bottle to my lips, forcing me to drink it. Lying down, it nearly makes me choke. But it hardens me.
She licks her lips at the sight, and I know what comes next: I completely shut off. I disconnect from my body as she climbs on top of me, guiding me inside her and taking what she needs. I don’t cl!max anymore.
She’s broken me, but it doesn’t stop her from getting what she always wants. Her hands are all over me, burning and marking me as hers, while she tightens around me and screams as she reaches her cl!max.
I practically leaped from my bed, fighting the air, but there was no one here but me. I sighed deeply, covering my sweaty face with my hands, taking a moment to find my way back to reality. I threw off the blanket and got out of bed, feeling cold and numb. The numbness was a constant, but it seemed to deepen every time I dreamt of her.
Even now, after all these years, she still haunted me, still took from me. I bent down to retrieve my jacket from the floor, pulling out my pack of cigarettes and my lighter. The pack, once adorned with red edges and a red rose in the center, had faded over the years from my constant handling. Yet the initials E.W. on the bottom remained stubbornly intact.
I walked, completely naked, to the balcony, opened the door, and stepped into the cold November night. The chill barely registered as I lit a cigarette and gazed at the dark forest before me.
“Meow!”
I turned to see the little orange fatball that had decided to follow me wherever I went. I had completely forgotten I’d let her into the room to sleep beside me and must have woken her with my restless movements.
“Can’t sleep either?” I asked.
She jumped up on the railing, her yellow eyes fixed on me. “Meow!”
I placed my hand on her head and started to scratch her ears. This was probably the closest I had been to another being in years. I didn’t like to be touched, and everyone knew that, but the little furball didn’t care. If I didn’t pet her, she would meow until I did.
I placed the cigarette between my lips and took a long drag. It was a good thing wolves couldn’t get cancer, because if they could, I’d surely be dead by now. I smoked too much, but it was the only thing that calmed me.
Even when I was running in the forest, I felt unable to escape my past. Her voice and touch were etched into my memory, driving me nearly insane. I couldn’t erase her.
“Meow!”
“What?” I inquired, irritated. “Am I not already petting you?”
She didn’t respond but moved away and jumped down from the railing. She looked back at me, as if inviting me to come inside, but I wasn’t ready yet. I needed more time.
