Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Five

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My eyelids peel back as far as humanly possible—and then some. My lungs turn flaccid, my breath halting on autopilot, my pupils dilating as the daunting thought plants itself firmly in my head.

I know I don't always succeed in not taking the name of the Lord in vain—the way my late mother taught me to—but Jesus. Motherfucking. Christ.

Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God...

No, no, no, no, no, no, no!

This cannot be happening!

Continuous wheezing suddenly fills the room, the simultaneously high-pitched and strangled sound of all my fear instantly bubbling to the surface, exploding out of me like an inferno.

"Huuuungh!!! Huuuungh!!!"

My head whips around so fast my brain spins, my eyes darting up to the door in urgency, as if having my frightened gaze on it will somehow make it swing open. As if it will make Frost suddenly appear from behind it.

A second passes.

And then another.

And another.

No door movements.

No Frost.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit...

"Hmmmph! Gohg ganhg igh!!!"

I seriously can't believe this is happening.

To me.

Oh my God, this man is officially a psychopath! Like, WTF? Is the slimy bastard trying to kill me before he fucks me? What exactly is the objective here? 'Cause a lesson in punctuality won't matter one bit if my brain is a slab of melted meat glued to my skull at the end of this.

Punishment my ass. This is a goddamned death penalty.

The whole thing is a thousand layers of ultimate fucked-up.

My mind races faster than it ever has, a billion scattered thoughts rummaging through it all at once, one in particular pushing its way to the forefront.

Holy crap.

I can almost see the headline in full caps.

BREAKING NEWS: WOMAN DIES FROM UNPRECEDENTED ELECTROCUTION—IN HER OWN EJACULATE!

Fuck. My. Life. For. Real.

"Hangh oh ah bih!!!"

Even though I have every reason under the currently non-existent sun to freak the fuck out, panicking uncontrollably does nothing but add exponential pressure to the situation, stressing me and my overworked limbs to hell and back. In fact, it makes me that much more likely to lose my balance.

Just keep counting, I tell myself...

And, like a vindictive joke, the irony of those words descends on me like a kick to the head.

I bite into the gag impulsively, struggling not to get aggravated as I recall all the lashes to my ass. But my eyes end up doing major somersaults anyway, practically rolling to the back of my head even though the bastard the contemptuous gesture is directed at is nowhere in sight.

But in spite of how I feel about essentially following his earlier order—and of my own will, no less—I have to focus on the countdown. It'll keep my mind occupied, distract me from dwelling on fear and all the things that will undoubtedly make me lose it.

Plus, all this groaning and cursing is really starting to make my jaw ache.

No, that's not true. It's been aching. For a while now. But all the recent stress has amplified it ten-fold, turning the pain into something else. Something a lot more intense and unbearable.

Count, dammit!

I struggle to remember where I left off and guesstimate the time passed since then, forcing my brain to work even though it's the last thing it feels like doing right now.

But even with my best efforts, it's obvious I'm going in somewhat blindly. There's no doubt in my mind that my timing is off, and I'm not sure by how much. I have no way of knowing, but I figure it's much better to overestimate my count than underestimate it.

One thousand, eight hundred and forty-five.

One thousand, eight hundred and forty-six.

One thousand, eight hundred and forty-seven...

That's right. Don't worry about being a hundred percent correct. Just keep counting. That's all that matters.

Two thousand and thirty-six.

Two thousand and thirty-seven

Two thousand and thirty-eight.

Two thousand and thirty-nine...

Yes. That's it. Stay focused.

Three thousand, five hundred and seventy-three.

Three thousand, five hundred and seventy-four.

Three thousand, five hundred and seventy-five...

Only a little ways more to go.

Four thousand and one...

Getting close.

Four thousand and eighty-nine...

Almost there—

A sharp clank erupts suddenly, the mechanical sound colliding with my thoughts and dismantling the sequence of numbers in my head. The grind of metal against metal continues to ring in my ears, but instead of startling me like it's done every time before, hearing the foreboding noise again strengthens my resolve.

My hands ball into fists above my head, all the muscles in my legs contracting in anticipation, steeling themselves against the inevitable with everything they've got.

The device rotates for the fifth time, moving clockwise in a slow but unyielding turn.

I take in a deep, long breath, practically sucking in all the oxygen in the room. Impulsively, my teeth sink into the ball gag as I brace myself against the involuntary motion. My forehead creases into a million furrows as my upper body is forced in the opposite direction of my lower half.

Renewed cramps hijack the centers of my feet, painful numbness crawling up into my heels and ankles, but I push past the ache, forcing myself to stomach the unbelievable discomfort, doing my best to ignore it even though it feels like all the bones in them are about to snap like crackers.

Hold on! I tell myself. Just hold on!

Tangible heat radiates from every inch of my skin, and my shoulders are stiff and sore with all the tension in the universe, the muscles in them contracting and bunching up on each other with no room to spare, my arms practically squeezing both sides of my head, involuntarily clamping over ears that are pounding with barely-contained blood rush.

My legs quake uncontrollably, trembling like unstable toothpicks as my toes essentially bear the weight of my entire body.

If I'm still able to walk normally after this, it will be nothing short of a miracle.

Eventually, the metal croaking stops, as does the motion of its source. My eyes slam shut in a mixture of both relief and struggle, trying desperately to maintain my balance. I practically fight for it, using everything in me, every last ounce of strength I have left not to falter.

And I succeed, managing to dodge the fate of electrocution by a hair...for maybe ten seconds.

And then, like the butt of an awful joke, I inadvertently lose my balance.

This time, my right foot waves its white flag, unable to take any more, stumbling chaotically under my weight, and the rest of my lower body follows suit immediately, my toes giving out without my permission, placing the worst strain I've ever felt on my arms. For a second, I swear I genuinely feel like they're going to tear right off my shoulders.

I don't even have time to process my fall before sharp, concentrated zaps spread all over my soles, an invisible eruption of static electricity anchoring itself to me, refusing to let go.

Potent shocks continue to attack my toes, sprinting up my ankles and fanning unpleasantly into my legs. I can't seem to move for several moments. I can't even physically recoil despite the fact that my reflexes demand just that, the jolting current engulfing my feet, holding me in place like some sort of super magnet. I cry out from behind the ball gag, enraged, my temples pounding, my heart racing with adrenaline-spiked blood. My teeth sink as far as they will go into the hardened rubber, clenching against the unbearable pain, and it's all I can do to stop myself from using the whistle. I seriously contemplate blowing the crap out of it and putting an end to my misery and this sick, twisted game Frost is dishing out in the name of punishment. A moment of absolute overwhelm almost ensures I do just that, sucking in a breath with the intention of huffing as hard as I can.

But, by some miracle, I manage to stop myself short of the action, my sense of logic somehow superseding my impulsive emotions in spite of the sea of pain I'm trapped in. In a burst of sheer willpower that I didn't know I had, I stretch my legs as far as they will go, twisting my already contorted form even more and leaning my upper body as far back as I can until my feet are back on the designated numbers. After what feels like an eternity of hell, I finally succeed in re-balancing my feet, using all the strength I have to free them of the horrible wave of static gripping them like a vice.

I try to calm down, only so my erratic breathing doesn't cost me my regained balance—and terribly fractured sanity.

But even as temporary relief continues to wash over me, I know I'm at the end of my rope.

There's no way I'll be able to handle another rotation. It's physically impossible at this point.

God...

I never should have signed that agreement! Nothing good ever comes from making deals with the devil. If I knew then what I know now I would have told him to shove his dirty contract up his perfect ass.

You really believe that? the voice in my head chimes haughtily. Ha! Bitch, please. Don't even start with that self-righteous bullshit. You knew. You knew exactly what you were getting into and you made your choice. How is regretting it going to help you right now?

Shut up.

I will the voice and it's unsolicited, taunting, sarcastic truths away, but it refuses to go anywhere, and the deafening silence ensures that I can't ignore it.

And, before I realize it, I'm at war with myself, adamantly arguing with my own psyche because of one depraved man, desperate to be free of this entire fucked-up situation he's put me in.

But then again, that's precisely what got me here in the first place.

Desperation.

It truly is a funny thing.

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