Page 138 of Veinblood
“It has nothing to do with correct techniques. Pain is pain.”
“Everything is about technique. Pain without purpose is just mindless violence. Painwithpurpose is art.”
When the shadow-wrapped metal touches his chest, directly over his heart, his body arches. The smell of burning flesh fills the chamber, and finally, he screams. It tears from his throat, and bounces off the walls. The same walls that once witnessed mine.
But he recovers quickly, breathing hard but regaining control.
“Better,” he gasps when the iron pulls away, leaving a perfect circle burned into his skin. “Now you’re starting to understand. But you’re still being too careful, too gentle. You need to hold it in place for longer to achieve the full impact.”
“This isn’t about learning new skills.” I walk away and select one of the whips hanging on the wall. One he used on me, barbed and tipped with small spikes. “This is about justice.”
“Justice?” He barks a strained laugh. “Isthatwhat you’re calling it? You’re here because you need this. Because some part of you enjoyed what happened between us, and you can’t admit it to yourself.”
“That’s not?—”
“Isn’t it?” His smile turns knowing, predatory. “Why else would you bring her to watch? Why else make sure she sees exactly what you’re capable of?” He jerks his chin toward Ellie.
“She already knows what I’m capable of. She’s seen me kill before.”
“But this isn’t killing, is it? This is torture for pleasure. Admit it. You want her to see the monster you are. You want her to be afraid of you.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Am I? Then why haven’t you killed me yet? Why are you taking your time? Why are you savoring it?” He leans forward as much as his restraints allow. “Because you learned from me, didn’t you? You learned what real power feels like. Not this magic you rely on. But the power to make someone else hurt.”
I ignore him, and tear his shirt away fully. The burn mark is already blistering, red and ugly against his pale skin. I raise my arm and flick my wrist. The first lash of the whip tears across bare flesh, opening a line from shoulder to ribs. He tries to absorb the pain, jaw clenching that hard I can hear his teeth grinding together.
“Count.” My voice comes out cool.
He glares at me, blood running down his chest, sweat dripping from his brow, but he says nothing.
“Stay silent then. I’ll do it for you. One.” I count for him, the way Sereven counted for me.
The second lash crosses the first. The barbed tips catch flesh and tear, leaving ragged wounds that will scar when they heal. He makes a sound between his teeth but quickly suppresses it.
“Two.”
The third lash opens his skin to the muscle beneath.
“You’re still being too gentle,” he manages to hiss out. “You’re holding back because she’s watching. Are you worried about what she’s going to think?”
“Three.”
“Youshouldbe worried. Sweet little things like her don’t stay once they see the truth. Once they understand what you really are. Of course, you couldmakeher stay. Use the fear she’s going to feel to force her to kneel at your feet.”
Four.
Five.
Six.
Each lash tears deeper, blood painting abstract patterns across the walls behind him. By the tenth, he’s cursing me between strikes, his composure starting to crack. By the fifteenth, his voice breaks completely, reduced to animal sounds of pain and rage.
I pause, arm raised, to study his face. Sweat and blood mixon his skin, but his eyes still hold cruelty and intelligence. He’s still looking for a way to regain control of this situation.
“Getting tired? I can teach you how to do it properly, if you like. I keep telling you, technique matters.”
“You need to leave now, Mel’shira.” I don’t turn around.
