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Then he personally strapped me into a suspension harness before seven men were guided into the room.

That was how the day started.

It only got worse from there.

Thirty-seven men visited me. Some rented me as a group; others came alone. Some rented for an hour, but most only got a half hour.

The marathon lasted exactly 24 hours. The torture and beatings took place in the final twelve, with the worst of them coming in the last three.

No one scarred me, but I was flogged and punched and kicked and strangled.

I couldn’t decide which half was worse, but by the end of it, I was crumpled on the floor of a room I didn’t remember entering, in so much pain I couldn’t move.

They left me there for two days in agony, and then he came.

The door opened gently, the lights dimmed, and for the first time I registered how assaulting the light had been before.

The stabbing pressure in my eye sockets gradually eased.

Instantly, I felt calmer, but as soon as I heard the heavy boots, the hairs on my arms rose again.

But the steps were measured and deliberately slow. He walked in and out of the room several times before stopping.

I lifted my head to see who was here to torture me again. Maybe it was that cunt of a doctor.

I groaned as I moved. Everything hurt. My ribs, my back—which was covered in flogging welts—my stomach, my legs, and my arms. Everything hurt.

Every muscle felt stiff and sore.

“You don’t need to move.” His voice was smooth and velvety, with a posh British accent.

I lowered myself down, and my face kissed the concrete. All I saw was his black dress shoes.

I sucked in a pained breath as he knelt beside me and opened a medical kit, deliberately keeping it within my field of vision.

“In here are some pain meds. Unfortunately, not the strong kind. Although I assume you wouldn’t want to be drugged to that level with a man you’ve just met.”

“Not like it matters,” I said under my breath.

Because let’s be serious. It didn’t. They owned me and could do whatever they wanted.

The Marathon was proof of that.

“In the kit is also a topical treatment for your welts,” he said slowly. “I can help you apply it, but I am guessing you’d rather I not touch you at all.”

He was right, and the fact that he knew it well enough to say it was unsettling.

No one had bothered to ask me what I wanted in months, much less guessed it right.

“Here are some ice packs for the swelling and pain.” He pulled a black duffel bag from behind him and placed it within reach. “Here is some water I added electrolytes to.” He set a tumbler next to my head.

My gaze caught on his arm. His dress shirt was rolled up, exposing an intricate tattoo on his forearm. It was a tree whose roots started at his wrist and branched out in tangled patterns.

It was beautiful.

“That should help with your dehydration,” he said, the tumbler’s metal clicking against the concrete.

He stepped back, as if to observe me from afar.