Page 18 of Tiny's Testament
"The Royal Bastards," I breathe. "Red, their tech guy, he tracked us somehow. They raided the place. I remember hearing engines, shouting, and gunfire. Then Tiny was there, cutting the chains, wrapping me in his cut because I had no clothes left."
"How did that feel?"
"Unreal," I admit. "Like a hallucination. I kept thinking I'd wake up and still be in the motel room. But Tiny kept talking to me, kept telling me I was safe, and eventually," My voice cracks. "Eventually, I believed him."
"And then Lattimer took you again." The name alone makes my stomach turn to ice.
Lattimer was different than Josiah. Josiah was a predator of opportunity. A monster who snatched women off the street and kept them like pets.
Lattimer was calculated. Professional. He didn't just want to hurt us, he wanted touseus. To make a point.
"He took me from the compound," I say, the memory still sharp enough to cut. "I thought I was safe there. Thought the gates and the brothers and the security would be enough. But someone," I choke on the name. "Someone helped him. Lured me out with some bullshit excuse, and then."
The smell comes first. Metal, bleach, and old fear. The kind that never leaves your skin. It was a motel once. Or maybe a slaughterhouse before that. Cracked tile flooring, peeling floral wallpaper, and a single bulb swinging overhead, painting everything in yellow light.
He made sure I could see the door. That was the worst part. Freedom right at my fingertips, but not mine to take.
Lattimer doesn’t raise his voice the way Josiah did. He doesn’t need to. His tone stays level, almost conversational, like he’s explaining a concept rather than dismantling a person. That quiet certainty is worse than shouting ever could be.
When he reaches for me, I flinch, but he only brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, gentle in a way that makes my skin crawl because tenderness shouldn’t exist in a room like this.
"Do you understand now?" he asks, crouching in front of me like he's about to have a heart-to-heart.
My wrists are zip-tied to the headboard, skin split where the plastic digs in. My head is spinning from whatever he made me inhale hours ago. Something sweet that turned the world to static. My clothes are ripped off and tossed somewhere in this room. There's a cut on my temple, blood dried into my hair. I can't tell if it's day or night.
Lattimer reaches out, and I flinch, but he just tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. Gentle. Almost tender.
That's when I know I'm in real danger. Josiah's violence was impulsive, reactive. Lattimer's is considered. Every move is deliberate, designed to maximize psychological damage.
"I gave you a taste of what happens when the Royal Bastards get involved in things that aren't theirs." His eyes meet mine, and I see nothing in them. No rage. No lust. Just cold, clinical purpose.
My throat burns when I whisper, “You think this scares them?”
“No,” he says, and that single syllable vibrates with certainty. “It’s not about scaring them, sweetheart. Fear fades, pain doesn’t.”
He pulls out his phone, records me under that flickering light like I’m just another lesson he’s teaching someone. “Tell them, Syvannah,” he says. “Tell them who did this.”
I glare up at him. “They’ll kill you.”
His smile widens, gentle and amused. “If they could have, they would have by now.”
He turns off the recording, pockets the phone, then grabs my chin. His fingers are cool, steady, the control in them more terrifying than violence. I flinch.
“I want you to remember every second,” he murmurs. “The smell, the pain, the fear. And when you close your eyes at night, I want you to see me there. Because I’ll still be watching.”
He traces the edge of the knife along the tie and cuts it with a flick of his knife. For half a heartbeat, I think he’s letting me go. Relief flashes and dies. The knife doesn’t leave his hand.
His voice lowers, steady and cold. “Let’s make sure you don’t forget.”
The world narrows to sounds. The slow drag of his boots, the whip of his belt, the sound of flesh against flesh, the sharp hiss of my own breath. Then everything shatters.
I remember the smell first. Metal and sweat. Then silence. My body shuts down to survive, doing what it has to.
When I come back to myself, the bulb is still flickering. The taste of blood is sharp on my tongue. Lattimer’s shadow stretches across the floor like it owns the room. He wipes his hands, calm again, composed, like he just finished a transaction, not a beating.
He watches me for a long moment, calm again, composed, the predator who’s already finished feeding.
When Lattimer finally speaks, his voice is quiet enough that I almost miss it. “Now,” he says, “you’ll never forget what happens when the Royal Bastards forget their place.”
