HE’D LOWERED THE LIGHTS and closed the curtains before he began. The cruel wind outside howled as loudly as it could but inside the bedroom, it could barely be heard, the thickness of the glass keeping the winter out and the warm in.

The roaring fire helped, not that Karen could see it through her blindfold. She could hear it though, the wood snapping and crackling as he continued to poke at the inferno. She could hear him too, the gentle in out of his breathing whenever he paused. She pictured him over there. Standing up. Turning to look at her. Seeing how her body looked in the flickering glow of the fire. Were the bruises already forming? Was he looking at the marks he’d made? Was it worth begging again? Would it make any difference? Would he just cut her again?

Her wrists ached from being bound in place above her head but she was too terrified to care. What she cared about was what he was going to do to her next and unless he removed her blindfold, she wouldn’t even know about it until it happened. Like the first punch. It had been such a shock, all the air forced out of her lungs when his fist slammed into her gut. That had been an hour ago and he’d done so much more since then. That first punch was a walk in the park in comparison to what he’d done to her.

She heard a slight hissing sound next to her ear and despite the pain, despite the terror, she knew what it was he was holding. It gave out a heat that radiated towards her skin. It couldn’t be anything else. “Please,” she muttered between sobs. “Please, don’t.”

She tried to move her body away from the burning hot poker, not easy with her limbs bound so tightly in place.

“I’m guessing this isn’t your first time,” she’d said, giggling when he’d connected the cuffs to her wrists. It felt like a lifetime since she’d willingly let him attach her to the bed posts. If only she’d known what he had planned for her.

How had she got there? Her thoughts raced back through the terror to earlier in the evening. Had there been signs he would be like this? When should she have guessed?

She’d felt dizzy after her first drink. Had he slipped something into it? Or was it just because she hadn’t eaten all day, too nervous about her upcoming date with Mr Suave?

Her first internet date. A night at a wine bar with such a handsome man. So witty. So charming. He made her laugh for hours, provided her with glass after glass until all her inhibitions had melted away. She remembered climbing into his car, too happy to care where they were going, just wanting to know if he looked as good out of his suit as he looked in it.

His house, set back from the road. “You like your privacy?” she’d said with a giggle as they drove up to the door, the gates automatically swinging shut behind them.

He’d nodded in response. “I need my privacy.”

“Ooh, what for?” she asked, leaning on his shoulder.

“You’ll see.” That smile of his, the one that made her insides melt.

More drink inside. Then up to his bedroom. Wood panelled, four poster bed, a fire that he lit while she watched. Everything a romantic girl could ask for. A single perfect kiss. Then he suggested she might like to try something new. He’d brought out the handcuffs and she’d been excited beyond measure. It was going to happen. Sleeping with a stranger on the first date. A scandal if anyone found out. But she wasn’t going to be telling, this would be just between them. She hadn’t even told anyone she had a date, not wanting to boast before she knew whether or not it was going anywhere. The handcuffs told her it was definitely going somewhere.

She should have seen the warning signs. She might have been all right if she’d been paying more attention. The way he’d snapped at the barman for bringing the wrong drink, the angry sigh he’d not bothered to hide when her shoe fell off on the way to the car, the way his smile faded when he closed the curtains and turned to look at her, prone and vulnerable in his bed. But she had brushed her qualms away like an irritating fly, gone, forgotten, easy to ignore when he was busy running his hand up her thigh.

“Let’s make it interesting,” he said as she lay on the bed, handcuffs around her wrists, ropes around her ankles.

“I’m listening,” she said, her eagerness spilling out of her mouth as she grinned at him through a drunken haze.

He brandished a blindfold like a magician pulling a bunch of flowers from his sleeve. “Makes it more intense,” he said, tying it in place, tying it too tightly.

She realised then but it was already too late. The look on his face told her, the way his mask slipped, revealing the real him. “I’m not sure about this.”

“I am,” he replied, smiling coldly.

“Let me go,” she demanded, trying to sit up. In response, he leaned down and licked her cheek.

“Where would be the fun in that?” he asked. And then he began.

The pain started almost immediately. By the time he waved the poker towards her, she was utterly exhausted, her throat sore from screaming, from sobbing, from begging.

She tried begging yet again, twisting her head away, the hissing growing louder. Panic raced through her and she wrenched at the handcuffs, trying to force her wrists through them, crying out in pain as they dug into her skin but getting nowhere in her escape attempt.

“Please, why are you doing this?”

“I don’t want to do it,” he said, his voice by her ear, whispering as if he was afraid someone might overhear him. “I don’t have a choice.”

“You do,” she cried. “You do have a choice. You could let me go.”

“I can’t,” he replied, pulling the blindfold from her and tossing it into the fire. She looked up at him as the poker moved closer towards her. “No,” he muttered, shaking his head as she twisted away. “Not yet.”

He turned from her, shoving the poker back into the fire.

“Please,” she tried again. “Please let me go.”

She looked at him as he turned back to her but it was like he’d become a different person. The warmth was long gone, the humanity had vanished. His face was devoid of emotion. He took a step across the room, pausing to pick a knife up on the way, the knife he’d already used to cut her clothes away from her, the knife that had made that wicked, still stinging deep slice across her chest. “I love your eyes,” he said, moving closer as she flinched away. “I think I’ll keep them.”

She screamed as he lunged with the knife, her head thrashing from side to side. He climbed onto the bed, kneeling on her chest, crushing the air out of her as he slid forwards until his knees were by her ears, gripping her head tightly in place.

“Please,” she muttered.

“You can scream if you like,” he said, lowering the knife towards her.

She did.

It made no difference. He worked at her until he was done. By then her screams had long since died away. She had been silent for over an hour.