Chapter43: The Sparrow Wall

Chapter43: The Sparrow Wall


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Chapter43: The Sparrow Wall

Tears poured as the Russian chuckled, thick fingers clamping down on my thigh like a vice.

He held me still, then dragged his bloated tongue across the chocolate-smeared fabric clinging to my skin. Slime trailed behind, warm and wet, clinging like oil. I shuddered. Revulsion swam in my gut. I tried to recoil, but his grip hardened.

“No struggling, pretty girl.”

He poured more chocolate onto my foot and dropped to his knees like he worshipped filth. He sucked it off with grotesque slurps, moaning like it was a delicacy. I gagged, held steady only because I needed to stay upright—needed to stay sane.

I couldn’t lose control. Not again.

Not like I had with 1950’s Man. At least he’d grounded me. There had been something careful in the way he held me. Something human. This man—this monster—wanted to unravel me. He wanted to break me for his own sick amusement.

He stood again, thick hands gripping the jug. Chocolate drizzled over my stomach, warm and slow. I couldn’t stop it. It rolled toward my hips, pooling low, too close.

“Not low enough, huh, pet?” he growled, then hauled me to him. His mouth met my skin.

I squirmed, choking on the bile rising in my throat. His tongue carved a path downwards, cold now with the air, thick like mucus. Then—God—his tongue flicked over my clit.

Shame exploded in my chest.

“You fucking bastard,” I spat, teeth clenched, jaw tight. “You won’t get away with this.”

In my head, I watched him bleed out from a slit throat, his carcass burning like trash in a crematorium.

And in that moment, I understood something that shattered me more than his touch: Lucien’s touch made me feel. Made me tremble. Made me hate myself.

This man? I felt nothing but ice. My body shut down. My mind screamed. No heat. No shameful hunger. Just revulsion.

Lucien had done something to me—had owned something in me.

Had I given that willingly? Had I offered up my body just to feel close to something that saw me?

I hated the Russian with a clarity I’d never known. A bright, unforgiving kind of hate.

Lucien? That hate was deeper. Slower. Like lava beneath the skin.

The Russian grunted and yanked my thighs apart. The stink of garlic on his breath nearly made me faint. My balance tipped. He caught me before I could fall, stepping onto the podium, his bulk behind me like a wall of meat.

He turned me away from Lucien.

A wall of sparrows filled my vision.

A thousand tiny birds, painted mid-flight, struggling out of a storm into a sliver of sky. Feathers bristled. Wings outstretched.

I wanted to fly with them. I wanted out.

But then pain snapped me back.

He twisted my breast in his hand, hard enough to bruise. His teeth scraped my ear. I opened my mouth to scream, to call out—to beg Lucien to end this—but his hand clamped over my face. Nose and mouth. No air.

My lungs seized.

My body pressed back against him, and I felt it—his arousal. I froze.

My eyes found the sparrows again.

Please, take me with you.

Something cold tapped my stomach.

A blade.

Panic flared like fire.

“Hush now, little whore,” he whispered. “You cost me a fortune. Time I got my return.”

The sound of ripping fabric tore into my brain. My dress fell apart in pieces. I tried to glance down—my ribs hurt from twisting.

He held a rusted knife. Not for cutting, but…

Oh God.

He flipped it.

Blade into his palm.

Handle up.

No. No, no, no.

He pressed the wooden handle between my thighs.

I thrashed, every cell screaming. I begged the air for help, even if I couldn’t speak.

Then, like salvation: “Viktor,” Lucien said coldly. “Let go of my gift.”

Relief crashed into me. Lucien would stop this. He had to.

“Just a hug, Mr. M,” the Russian smirked. “I’ll let her go.”

I kicked, hard, hitting nothing but air.

Still Lucien said nothing.

The silence was worse than the Russian’s breath.

“I’ve got maybe thirty seconds left…” he muttered.

He wedged a boot against the tracker on my ankle, prying my legs open. The wooden handle pressed against my entrance.

I begged God. I begged death. I begged anything that would listen.

But the monster rammed it inside me.

I screamed behind his palm. A dry scream that tore my throat but made no sound.

The handle ripped into me. Dry. Splintered. Hard. I felt every inch, every jagged scrape. My body wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready.

Tears spilled. My mind fractured.

But rage cracked through the despair.

I fought. Fought like I never had before.

He grunted as I bucked. My body twisted wildly, no grace, no strength—just survival.

Then—a gunshot.

He screamed.

My knees gave. I collapsed, wrists yanking against the chains, shoulders screaming.

Blood poured down the Russian’s leg. He hit the ground, screaming in pain.

Lucien stood, gun raised, eyes blazing.

“Get the fuck out of my house.”

The others ran. Chairs scraped. Panic flooded the room.

All but 1950’s Man. He stood behind Lucien, fists clenched, unmoving.

Franco came, dragging the Russian away like garbage.

José entered and reached for Lucien’s shoulder. “Lucien—”

“Putain! Don’t,” Lucien snarled, waving the gun. “Leave.”

José paused, then nodded.

Gone.

Silence.

I hung.

Tears blurred my vision. My arms were dead weight. My shoulders burned. But it was nothing—nothing—compared to what I felt inside.

Lucien let it happen.

He let it happen.

I was his, wasn’t I? I was his toy, his captive.

And he gave me away. Let someone else break me.

Something snapped in my mind. A tiny thread that held everything together.

Gone.

I blacked out.

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I woke up in motion.

Cradled.

Citrus and sandalwood surrounded me. Arms like steel. A chest I knew too well.

Lucien.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, lips against my hair. “Je suis tellement désolé.”

His voice trembled. Shattered. “I’ll protect you now. I’ll fix it.”

Kisses landed on my forehead. Soft. Repetitive. Like penance.

I didn’t want them.

I didn’t want him.

Why was he hurting? Why did he sound broken?

He allowed it.

His sorrow didn’t matter. His grief didn’t count.

Mine was still bleeding.

I wanted to scream. To hit him. To tell him he’d ruined something inside me that could never be rebuilt.

But
I was done.

My body floated.

And this time, my mind let go too.