Fated To Her Tormentors Novels & Stories

She longed for a return to the simplicity of her former life, for a world untouched by the horrors she had witnessed. Her tears mingled with the musty scent of the hollow, a silent testament to her anguish. She yearned for rescue, for salvation from the clutches of this nightmare. But deep down, she knew that her fate lay in her own hands, that she alone had the power to forge a path through the darkness and reclaim her freedom.

She forced back a tear as every memory of humiliation, betrayal, and pain replayed in brutal clarity. They had marked her as a traitor. They had torn away her dignity. They had ordered her death. And she had obeyed like a fool until they disposed of her. Hatred burned so hot in her heart that she almost choked on it. They left her to die…They wanted her gone. They wanted to erase her existence, but she wasn’t dead. “I’m still alive,” she muttered to herself. “Not because Nightshade wanted it. Not because Nyla allowed it. Not because Draco deserved loyalty. But because I'm not done.”

“Yes, and it worked until I sent her here to eliminate you. I don’t know what you did to twist her mind-” “She’s my Fated,” I grin, watching as horror fills his eyes. “She will always choose me over you and there’s not a fucking thing you can do about it.” He cries out and rears back his fist to embed the stake in my heart, but I don’t close my eyes or bow my head, knowing my death is near. I lived a life I loved and met my Fated before my eventual demise; it’s just a shame that I will never be able to fully make her mine.

As sick as it was… her mind betrayed her and went back to him. To the nights when he locked her up, whispered twisted endearments against her skin, branded her with his obsession. But he hadn’t let others touch her. He hadn’t allowed strangers to hurt her like this. He had been insane, yes—but at least she’d known the devil she was with. This? This was faceless, organized torment. Robotic cruelty. CRACK. She choked on her sob, tears spilling down her cheeks, mixing with the sweat and humiliation. The women didn’t stop. They didn’t even blink. They simply delivered pain as instructed—methodically, mechanically, until red welts bloomed like angry vines down her back.

Things that would've even driven a fully grown adult, exceedingly mad. That was all she was, a weapon and she was sick and tired of being used. She was sick and tired of being subjected to the endless experiments and supposed trainings. She was tired of moping around for a whole year while her parents' corpses laid bare on the ground where they had been brutally murdered, all because of her. They needed to be buried as last respect. She needed to see them and pay her homage to them for the last time so ever since she turned six, she had been planning to escape from the hell hole she had been plunged into, until one day, she put her plan into action. Two days to her seventh birthday, her capt

It seemed as if she had cried for an eternity, lost in a ceaseless torrent of despair. The metal chain clanged against the bed's frame, a constant reminder of her captivity. She had become a wretched denizen of this forsaken place, ensnared in a nightmarish abyss that had devoured her sanity. She was but a shadow of her former self, her psyche shattered and fragmented beyond any hope of repair.

Killing the man that caused her sorrow for six years. She tried escaping after the assault done to her, and the slaves, and again she was caught, she remembered the punishment they gave her, they stripped her naked, tied her back on the table and flogged her with wires and irons, that was the worst days of her life, but it will sound foolish to say that the punishment never deterred her from trying again, from trying to escape again, instead it motivated her to leave the god damned forsaken hole.

Even if she was going to be killed by them, she should at least take one or two down with her instead of keeping her mouth shut and letting them bully her more than ever. Tormentors can never be changed. Hell, they will never change because they feed off from their victims. The cries, pain, and torment of their victims. To Carter and everyone in this pack, she was like an all-you-kick punching bag that they could beat up anytime they wanted. She would have to change herself first if she wanted to change that. She needed to fight for herself. As this thought crossed her mind, no sooner did she recall Carter's words to her in the dungeon, 'Play smart, not rash, Darling.' But then again, she wa

James’s torture had stripped her of everything, leaving her a broken shell. She couldn’t move, her limbs refusing to obey. Even the simple act of making a sound was beyond her; her voice, like her strength, had been completely stolen. All she could do was exist in the torment, trapped in a body that no longer felt like her own. "If something happens to Melissa, just know I will never let you go!"

Yet, at the end of the day, she still didn't understand the reason behind them all. "Mama and papa... I'm sorry. I can't- I can't hang on anymore..." She cried being unable to bare the pain of the last round of torture she was forced to go through. She was shaking all over, leaning against the wall as she tried to figure out a way to rest her body properly with her hands bound and hanging loosely above her head, leaning down wasn't an option for her and sitting wasn't an option either considering the still working tools in her holes down there. Seeing her almost broken legs, standing up is out of the window too. So, it was understandable when she lost the desire to live. "I don't think that