Page 27 of Love in the Dark

She stretches her arms above her head, her brown hair cascading down the pillow, framing her beautiful face. Her eyes sparkle with anticipation. Cherrie loves surprises, and the promise of more tricks from Azazel has her heart racing. Little does she know, the surprise she is about to receive will be far from what she expects.

Just as she begins to pick up her phone to text Azazel to tell him that she’s craving her favorite ice cream, chocolate fudge brownie, Cherrie smells a sweet familiar odor–sleeping gas. The bedroom door creaks open moments later. Cherrie's heart skips a beat as she sees a figure enter, but it is not Azazel. A tall, mysterious man with a dark hooded cloak strides into the room, his face hidden in shadow.

Cherrie uses the sheet to cover her mouth and nose. She tucks and rolls to the floor and grabs one of her daggers, throwing it at the hooded man, and it pierces his left arm. A second male walks in and shoots cherrie in the neck with a dart that makes her black out. Outside, the night is dark and moonless, adding to the sense of foreboding. The two men drag Cherrie across the gravel driveway, her feet scraping against the rough surface.They reach a waiting vehicle, a sleek black van with tinted windows. The man opens the sliding door, revealing a dark and empty interior. The men push her inside, and she lands on the cold metal floor of the van. He follows, closing the door behind him with a loud thud.

Thirty minutes into the drive Cherrie’s eyes slowly open and she scrambles to her feet, her heart hammering in her chest. She immediately elbows one of the men in the nose and kicks at him but he immediately catches her leg and kicks her in the chest, knocking the air out of her lungs, and making her hit the back of her head against the van.

The van lurches forward and Cherrie feels a surge of panic as the vehicle picks up speed, racing through the night.Where are they taking her? What do they want?The questions torment her, but there are no answers to be found. Time seems to stretch as the van continues its journey. Cherrie's mind races with scenarios, each more terrifying than the last. She imagines the worst—being held captive, tortured, or worse. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the van comes to a stop. Cherrie bracesherself, her heart pounding in her ears. The sliding door opens, and the man stands there, his hood still concealing his face. He gestures for her to exit, and Cherrie reluctantly complies, her legs trembling. The second male jumps into the driver seat and drives away as Cherrie follows the man in the hood.

They are in a secluded warehouse, its vast interior dimly lit by a few flickering bulbs. The man leads Cherrie inside, his grip on her arm tight and unforgiving. She scans the surroundings, searching for any sign of Azazel, but there is no one else in sight. He pushes Cherrie towards a metal table in the center of the room, and she stumbles, nearly falling. With a swift movement, the man produces a rope from his cloak and binds Cherrie's wrists tightly, securing them to the table's legs. She struggles, testing the restraints, but they hold firm.

Her eyes dart around the warehouse, seeking an escape, but there is none to be found. The man steps back, his eyes fixed on Cherrie. He reaches into his cloak and pulls out a small, sharp knife, its blade glinting in the dim light. Cherrie's breath catches in her throat as she realizes the true nature of her captor.

With deliberate movements, the man leans in, bringing the knife close to Cherrie's face. She can feel the cold steel against her cheek, a stark contrast to the warmth of her skin. He traces the blade along her jawline, her skin tingling with a mixture of fear and anticipation.

"You will learn to appreciate my art. Your beauty will be my canvas, and your pain will be my masterpiece." This man is a sadist, and she is his chosen victim.

The man steps back, his gaze sweeping over Cherrie's voluptuous form. He admires her curves, the soft swell of her breasts, and the gentle slope of her hips. Cherrie's skin prickles with a mixture of fear and anger.

In a swift motion, the man slashes the knife across Cherrie's shoulder, slicing through her thin nightgown. She cries out inpain, the sharp sting of the blade cutting through her flesh. Blood trickles down her arm, a vivid contrast to her dark skin.

"Your screams will be music to my ears, and your tears will be the paint that adorns my creation." Cherrie's eyes well up with tears, a mix of physical pain and emotional torment. She struggles against her bonds, desperate to escape this nightmare.

The man leans in, his breath hot against Cherrie's ear. "This is only the beginning, my beautiful canvas. I will paint you with pain and pleasure, and you will beg for more." Cherrie's mind reels, her thoughts a blur of fear and confusion. She never imagined her adventurous spirit would lead her to this—a captive, at the mercy of a deranged artist.

As the man steps back, Cherrie's eyes follow his every move, her breath coming out in short gasps. He reaches into his cloak again, producing a small vial filled with a clear liquid. He holds it up to the light, the liquid shimmering like a deadly promise.

"This will enhance your experience. It will heighten your senses, making every touch, every sensation, more intense."

Cherrie's eyes widen in fear as the man uncorks the vial and holds it to Cherrie's lips. She turns her head, refusing to drink, but he grips her jaw firmly, forcing her mouth open. The liquid spills down her throat, burning like fire.

Cherrie coughs, her body convulsing as the drug takes effect. Cherrie's body feels heavy, her movements sluggish, but her mind is alert–hyper aware of every sensation.

The man begins to caress her, his hands exploring her curves with deliberate slowness. His touch is both gentle and firm, sending waves of pleasure through her drugged state.

"Now, let the show begin." He steps back, and Cherrie feels a surge of energy coursing through her veins. Her senses are heightened, every touch, every sound, amplified to an unbearable level.

The man approaches with the knife, his movements graceful and deliberate. He traces the blade along Cherrie's exposed skin, her body responding with a mix of pain and pleasure. She feels every sensation intensely, her nerves on fire.

With each stroke of the knife, Cherrie's skin is marked with a delicate pattern. The man's movements are precise, his intent clear—he is creating a masterpiece on her flesh. Cherrie's tears mingle with her blood, a testament to her agony.

As the man continues his cruel artistry, Cherrie's mind begins to wander, her thoughts a blur. She thinks of Azazel, wondering if he is searching for her, if he will find her in time. She is wondering how she can protect herself and her unborn children. Now, she is living a nightmare, a captive in her own personal hell.

The man steps back, admiring his handiwork. Cherrie's body is a canvas of intricate cuts and patterns, a testament to her captor's twisted creativity. She is in agony, her skin on fire, but her mind is clouded, the drug numbing her senses.

"You are a masterpiece, but the show is not over yet. There is more pain to come, and more beauty to be revealed." Cherrie's eyes flutter, her vision blurring as the drug takes its toll. She feels herself slipping away, her consciousness fading.

Chapter Seventeen

Azazel wakes up sitting in a chair, left unharmed and untied.He stands up in the dimly lit room, his tall, muscular frame silhouetted against the solitary light source, a bare lightbulb swinging gently from the ceiling. The last thing Azazel remembers is picking up pizza and roses and then getting hit over the head from behind.

A message, scrawled in an unfamiliar hand, lay on the table before him. It’s a crude drawing of a captive bird, its wings bound, with a single word written beneath: "Find and unbind her if you can."

His eyes narrow reflecting the flickering light, as he runs his fingers along the cool metal of his gun. Azazel brings both of his fists down onto the table.

“I’ll kill them all, every single one of them.”

The air thickens with the scent of tobacco and adrenaline while he traces the contours of the drawing, his mind racing. The sender has Cherrie, and this time, they’d gone too far. Azazel's fingers tighten around the gun. He thought back to the firstmessage they had received months ago—vague threats alluding to his time as a hitman. Azazel runs a hand through his hair, his eyes never leaving the table. He recalls the day he and Cherrie had met—a chance encounter that would forever change Azazel’s outlook on life.

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