The forest felt alive, its branches scratching Nora's arms as she pushed forward. Every path pulled her deeper into the same nightmare: twigs snapping under her feet, cold stream water brushing her skin, and the suffocating sweetness of flowers filling the air. Time blurred. Her bare feet ached, then went numb. The sky turned gray, a false dawn that stayed cold and dim.
Hah-hah-hahhahah-hah! Hee-hee-hee-hee-hee-hee-hee! Nyah-nyah-nyah! Hah-hah…
Connor's laughter echoed through the trees.
"Little dawnling," his voice crooned, echoing from everywhere and nowhere. "You've made the flowers blush with your blood."
Nora ran faster, her chest burning. The stream appeared again, water curling around her ankles like a trap. She turned—THUMP!—and crashed into a wall of shadows.
Connor's fist hooked her hair—he wrenched—she twirled. Her skull slammed into the edge of the stream—CRACK—her head exploded in pain, blood spraying down her nose.
"Did you think I'd let you go?" He crouched. "This place breathes for me. Whispering your every step."
Nora spat, her blood splattered on his face. "Go. To. Hell."
Thwack! His hand struck her cheek. She crumpled to the stream. "Tsk. And after I made you so pretty," he murmured.
But she didn't respond. He paused, his gaze flickering over her motionless body. For a fleeting moment, fear shadowed his face—too hard? His hand trembled as he drew out a vial. He leaned closer, reaching for her face.
THUD-Clunk-plop. A stone slammed into his cheek, bouncing into the stream. His snarl deepened as he plowed, pinning her against the edge. Her spine cracked; she thrashed uselessly under his weight.
Connor's fingers clamped her jaw open, his thumb digging into the hinge until she gagged. The potion flooded her throat, burning as she choked it down. Her split lips knitted together, the scars on her thighs and arms faded, and the crack on her scalp sealed itself shut.
"There," he whispered, wiping her lips with his thumb, his touch almost tender. "Perfect again."
Nora's vision cleared, her body restored—but her mind screamed. He's toying with me. Breaking me. Piece by piece. Over and over—
Connor rose, brushing mud off his trousers. "Run," he said softly. "I'll even give you a head start."
Nora scrambled backward, then fled.
She followed the paths she swore she remembered:Left at the birch. Right at the stone. Always keep to the water. But her mind was unraveling—fragments of panic clouded her memory. Her feet faltered, slipping on damp leaves, doubling back.
The crunch of twigs underfoot sounded too familiar. Her breath hitched. No. She hadn't gone far enough, not yet. But no matter how far she ran, she always ended up back here, where her blood still painted the surface of indifferent rocks.
She broke through the edge of the flower field, and her stomach dropped. The petals glistened with the same bruised dawnlight. The oak loomed ahead, and there Connor leaned, his mouth curved in a slow, slicing smile as he flicked dirt from beneath his nails.
"Took you longer this time."
Nora charged—not at him, but at the daggers strapped to his belt. Her fingers grazed the hilt before he slammed her into the ground—THUD! She wheezed.
"Naughty," he purred, twisting her arm until the joint screamed. "You'll regret that."
POP! The bone snapped. "Aaaaghhh!"
Connor released his grip. She stumbled to her feet, clutching her broken arm, and fled into the woods...
...She circled back to him. He slammed her down, snapping another bone before letting her go.
By the tenth attempt, Nora's defiance had faded to an empty ache. Her arms hung limp, her fingers shattered. Connor watched her stagger to the edge of the pond, then dragged her back.
"Why?" she rasped.
He paused. "Why what?"
"Why keep me alive?"
For a heartbeat, there was a flicker in his expression—rage, grief, madness—then nothing. He swung her to his shoulder. "Why? You're my toy. I'll bathe you, clothe you, nurture you, and then—" A wide, eerie smile crosses his face.
—
THUD! Connor tossed Nora onto the floorboards. She groaned as the impact jolted her broken bones.
"Up," he ordered. She didn't move.
He seized her ankle and pulled her toward the foot of the bed. She struck out—a wild kick that grazed his jaw—he twisted her ankle—PLOP—"YAAARRRGH!"
"You'll learn to obey," he hissed, grabbing her last remaining limb—THWACK-CRACK!
"Urrghhhkk!" she wailed.
He left the room and returned with a basin of water. Nora remained perched at the foot of the bed, her teeth clattering from the lingering pain in her broken limbs. He held the same rough cloth, dipped it into the water, and moved it toward her face.
The first stroke tore a gasp from her throat.
The cloth scraped over her ribs, scrubbing as if to strip her down to the very bone. Nora arched in pain as he pressed harder, his breath growing faster with each stroke.
"Filthy," he muttered, grinding the cloth into the hollow of her collarbone. "Filthy, filthy girl!"
Blood wept where the cloth tore through her wounded skin. Nora clenched her jaw, refusing to cry out, but her silence only enraged him.
He gripped her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his gaze. "Beg."
She spat in his face.
PLAP! Blood splashed from her broken nose. He wiped the blood away with the cloth, then shoved it into her mouth. "Taste your own filth," he growled, scrubbing her tongue until she gagged.
When he finally withdrew it, her mouth burned with salt and bitterness.
He dipped it into the water, squeezed it clean, then worked lower.
It scraped over her hips, her thighs, then—Nora shut her eyes.
After wiping her clean, Connor slowly traced the jagged scar on her stomach—the one the potion never fully erased. His thumb pressed into it, enjoying her flinch. "This one stays," he whispered. "To remind you."
He reached for a vial and poured it down her throat. Her skin mended itself, her broken limbs snapped straight, and her bones fused together. But the agony of the healing was just as violent as the scrubbing, leaving her convulsing.
Connor watched, entranced, as her wounds closed. "Perfect," he breathed, stroking her newly flawless cheek. "All mine."
Nora turned away. The door slammed shut—then crashed open again.
In Connor's hands steamed a chipped wooden bowl, its contents sloshy and thick—a greasy stew filled with gristle and globules of fat that clung to the rim like wax.
"Open," he commanded, setting the bowl on the floor.
Nora pressed her lips into a tight, pale line. He grabbed her jaw, forcing it open. The first spoonful burned her tongue—a bitter, fatty sludge with the rancid taste of spoiled marrow. She gagged, but his grip tightened, forcing her throat to convulse around the lump.
"Swallow," he hissed.
She did. Barely.
The second spoon came faster, chunks of gristle catching in her teeth. Nora's stomach lurched, acid searing her esophagus. When she gagged, Connor clamped his palm over her mouth. His nostrils flared as her vomit burned his fingers.
"No!" he growled, leaning close enough for her to see the bloodshot in his eyes. "You'll take what I give you."
He forced another spoonful into her mouth, then another, layering the stew atop the bile until her stomach bulged. Her throat spasmed, rejecting the foul mixture, but he sealed her lips and cut off her breath. Stars burst behind her eyes as he bent to whisper, "All of it. Every drop."
She bucked, but he held firm. Only when her body fell still did he let go. She collapsed forward, heaving violently. Vomit dripped to the floor—a gruesome smear of half-digested stew and blood from her torn gums.
Connor crouched down, scooping up the mess into the bowl. "What a waste," he muttered, stirring the mixture with the spoon. "But we'll try again."