My mother used to make me pick my own switches.
I’d drag my feet through the small wooded patch behind our house, scanning the branches like I was being tested—because I was. I always chose the smallest one I could find. Something thin enough to lessen the blow, but thick enough that she wouldn’t get angry and choose something worse.
It never made much difference.
Then she’d whip me until my skin split.
“It will only hurt for a little, Chīsana otokonoko,” she would whisper, her voice soft—too soft—like she was comforting me instead of breaking me.
Afterward, she’d apologize.
And then she’d take me out for gelato.
Dark chocolate raspberry. Always her favorite.
Sometimes, I told myself I deserved it.
I was a difficult child. I didn’t want the life laid out for me—the dry-cleaning business my grandparents built when they came over from Calabria. My father expected obedience. Legacy. Submission.
I gave him none of it.
But other times… the reason wasn’t me.
Not really.
On those nights, I’d lie awake and listen.
The walls were thin. Too thin.
My father would come home angry—always angry—after a day of swallowing insults from customers who looked down on him. And he’d take it out on her. The sound of fists meeting flesh. The dull thud of something hitting the floor. My mother’s muffled cries, trying not to be heard.
Trying not to make it worse.
It never worked.
And when it was over, she would come to me.
Her hair—midnight black like mine—pulled back so tight it looked like it hurt. Her smile just as strained. Just as fragile.
And then she’d pass it on.
Pain doesn’t disappear in my family.
It gets handed down.
Power works the same way.
The strong take it. The weak lose it.
I think that’s when I started watching them.
The martial arts classes at the end of the block. Judo. Karate. Aikido. Kendo. I’d linger just out of sight, studying the way they moved. The control. The precision.
The power.
No hesitation. No fear.
I used to imagine what it would feel like to have that—to stand in front of someone stronger than me and not flinch. To take control instead of waiting for the next hit.
To finally be the one who decides when it stops.
Sometimes… I imagined using it on him.
Breaking him down piece by piece until there was nothing left of the man who thought he owned us.
If my mother could find peace… maybe I could too.
It will only hurt for a little.
The memory snaps, folding in on itself as I shove it back where it belongs.
Locked away.
Controlled.
I straighten, pushing off the wall of the dimly lit room. The plastic tarp I hung earlier rustles faintly beneath my boots, cocooning the space—clean, contained, deliberate.
Everything in its place.
Including the man tied to the chair at the center.
His breathing is uneven. Panicked.
Good.
A low hiss cuts through the silence as Isabella coils her way up his legs, her massive body moving with slow, deliberate intent. The moment she reaches his calves, he jerks violently, a strangled sound catching in his throat. His pristine suit is already soaked through with sweat.
“Careful,” I murmur, almost amused. “She likes it when you struggle.”
I drag a hand along my jaw, feeling the rough edge of stubble beneath my fingers before slipping my hand into my pocket. The familiar weight of the metal staff settles into my grip.
Comforting.
I pull it free and press the release. With a sharp click, it extends to full length, silver ends catching the dim light.
I twirl it once. Twice.
Step forward.
“Please,” he chokes.
A quiet chuckle escapes me as Isabella tightens ever so slightly around him.
“Your manners are impressive, Samuel,” I say, my voice calm, measured. “I suppose that’s expected—from someone like you.”
I stop just in front of him.
Close enough to see every flicker of fear in his eyes.
“But I don’t have any use for them.”
His face pales further, if that’s even possible.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
Confusion flickers across his expression, desperate and pathetic. “I—I’m just here for the girl,” he stammers. “They told me to come, I didn’t—”
“The girl,” I cut in, my tone sharpening, “and everything that comes with her…”
I tilt my head slightly, watching realization begin to creep in.
“…belongs to me.”
The staff spins once more in my hand before I bring it to a stop, the air between us tightening.
“Don’t worry,” I say, a slow smile pulling at my lips.
His breathing falters.
“This will only hurt for a little.”
VOCÊ ESTÁ LENDO
Bluey Twisted
FanficSHE'S HIS DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH. HE'S HER WORST NIGHTMARE. At 18 years old,Bluey heeler has been the daughter of the richest man in the world and has never known what strife is until her father falls ill and she's determined to fill out any last requ...
