Page 69 of Dark Therapy

The air thickened, the shadows around me twisting and morphing until I was no longer in the asylum. I was back in the dimly lit basement, my wrists raw from the ropes that cut into my skin, the stink of sweat and fear choking me. I could hear their voices again—low, gruff, and filled with malice.

“She’s a fighter, this one,” Ben had sneered, his shadow looming over me. “But they all break eventually.”

I’d been so small, too small to fight back, yet I had. Kicking, screaming, clawing—until they’d laughed and thrown me into that cold, damp room. My heart raced now, just as it had then, every beat a frantic plea for escape.

Bang!

The sound of Damien battering the door pulled me partway back, but the flashbacks wouldn’t let go.

I saw the chair where they’d made me sit, bound and helpless, their hands cold and unyielding as they strapped me down. I could hear the metallic scrape of their tools, thecruelanticipation in their laughter as they whispered about the things they would do. The dim light above me had flickered just like the one here, casting distorted shadows across their faces.

“Do you know howeasilyskin tears?” one of them had asked, his tone almost clinical. The sound of a blade being sharpened had followed, slow and deliberate, much like Damien’s earlier scraping.

I pressed my palms against my temples, trying to ground myself, but the memories surged forward again, stronger this time.

The dark room. Thescreams. My own voice, hoarse and broken, pleading for someone to come,anyone. The feel of hands gripping my arms, holding me down as I thrashed. I could still smell the rust, the blood, the despair.

“You’ll learn your place,” one of them had hissed, his breath hot against my ear. “They all do.”

The world spun, and for a moment, I couldn’t tell if I was still in the asylum or back in that basement. My knees buckled, and I sank to the floor, clutching my chest as sobs threatened to escape.

CRASH!

The lock gave way with a deafening shriek, the door flying open to slam against the wall. Cold air rushed in, pulling me back into the now, but the past still clung to my skin like oil, thick and suffocating.

Damien stood framed in the doorway, his silhouette a jagged shadow against the dim light behind him. The metal rod in his hand dragged along the floor as he stepped inside, his eyes alight with something wild and unhinged.

“Did you think you could hide from me?” he snarled, his lips curling into a twisted grin. “Oh no, Millie. You and I—we’reboundby this. By the screams, the scars, the darkness. You’remine, and you’ve always been mine.”

He stalked toward me, his presence swallowing the room whole. The tools on the trays rattled as he brushed past them, the air crackling with his intensity.

“Look at you,” he whispered, his voice both a caress and a knife. “Trembling, broken, but still soalive. Tell me, Amelia—was it fear that brought you to your knees just now? Or was it thethrill?”

I couldn’t answer. My voice was lost, tangled in the abyss of his gaze and the storm of my memories. And as he knelt before me, his face inches from mine, I couldn’t tell if I wanted to scream—or let him pull me under.

Damien knelt before me, his hand reaching out to gently brush against my cheek. His touch was deceptively soft, a cruel contradiction to the storm swirling in his eyes. My breath hitched as his thumb traced the curve of my jaw, his grin widening as he watched me shiver beneath his fingers.

“Suchfragilestrength,” he murmured, almost tenderly. “But even glass can shatter beautifully.”

From his pocket, he pulled out a syringe, the sharp glint of the needle catching the flickering light. My stomach dropped as he held it up, tilting it slightly, the liquid inside gliding like poison.

“It’s time,” he said, his voice a velvet razor. “Time to leave this place. Time to go somewhere…special.”

He brought the syringe closer, the needle hovering inches from my neck. My heart slammed against my ribs, panic rising like a tidal wave.

“I’ll go!” I gasped, my voice trembling. “I’ll go with you. Willingly.”

His grin froze for a moment, then stretched wider, his eyes lighting up with a sick satisfaction. “Willingly?” he echoed, his tone dripping with mockery. “Oh, Millie. You make it too easy.”

With a flick of his wrist, the syringe disappeared back into his pocket. He leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear.

“Good girl,” he whispered, his voice low and wicked. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

Damien stood, his dark presence looming over me as he reached to pull me up. My legs were shaky, the floor beneath me unsteady, but as his grip tightened around my arm, something shifted. Something deeper than fear or anger stirred inside me. Without thinking, I reached out, my fingers brushing his, and then—gripped his hand.

For a moment, neither of us moved. His gaze locked onto mine, his eyes a storm of surprise and twisted amusement. The weight of the gesture hung between us, too intimate for the horrors we had already shared.

His lips curled into a slow, calculating smile, and I could see the slighttremorin his eyes, almost imperceptible—something darker in that small, fleeting moment.

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