I look up from where I’m kneeling at the feet of the man I choose to call Executioner for reasons just such as these. “I’m not writing a fucking memoir for you or anybody else!” With no warning, his hand swipes out towards the side of my head, twisting until he has a handful of hair relentlessly gripped down to the roots. “Fuck that hurts!” His voice is laced with venom as he leans down and whispers, “Good, your pain pleases me.” “Why are you doing this?” “You were willing to talk to him but you won’t talk to me?” A sardonic brow rises in warning. “I didn’t open up to him.” “Well, you’re going to open up to me or you’re going to suffer the consequences.” He pulls at the leash, walking me through the industrial kitchen and into the foyer that houses the double winding staircases leading up to the room where I will be staying.
