Snippet #2633503

Iaira was not a woman to be scared easily and she had had her fair share of torture, enough of it for the threat of it not sounding quite so ominous to her ears anymore. Her tolerance for pain had been heightened over the course of time- not ,however, perfected. To say that her eyes did not follow the iron bar, did not focus on the white of its colour, would be a lie. To say that she did not have to steel herself, that she didn't feel a tightness in her chest at the expectance of pain, would be another one. When the disgusting little man, -/Hood take me, look with what malicious pleasure, no not malicious, mad, completely, blindingly mad, he presses the metal into my skin/- began his work, her fingers coiled tightly around the chain, tugging at it with full pressure. All at once, she felt the nerves in her body screaming at the sudden, rough pain, pain reaching through her, sharp and persistent. The assassin's teeth dug deep into the her lips, biting down so hard as to make them bleed, dripping down to her jaw, and from there, her chest.
And yet, she held on. Locked eyes with Weyellin as soon as she had managed to control her reactions. And spoke naught.