My Bestie's Dad Likes Me Wet-Chapter 80: PSYCHO

NOVA POV

"You know if I die, it won’t solve whatever it is you need answers to."

I forced those weak words out with what little strength I had left, but as expected, he didn’t answer me.

If not for the way he replied to someone else in the shadows, I could’ve sworn he was deaf but apparently, he just had selective hearing. Yeah, that’s a thing.

The same voice in the darkness said something, and my tormentor — as I’ve come to call the bastard — replied in the same language.

For the first time in my life, I regretted skipping Russian class just to binge erotica and Manga.

If only I’d learned a few words, maybe I could decode what they were saying. Maybe I’d know when the next wave of pain was coming.

My body was failing me, I felt weak, heavy and I was trembling. It had been hours since I sent the voice note. He’d stopped beating me, but parts of my body were still bleeding. My lips were cracked, my stomach empty, my throat dry enough to burn but the plot twist, he didn’t care.

Not the tiniest bit.

"Please just let me go," I whispered, voice trembling into the darkness. "I’ll give you anything you want."

I didn’t even believe what I said. What did I have to offer? A stack of manga and a library full of smut? Pathetic.

He raised an eyebrow at me, that cold, mocking kind of look that said really? without a word.

I took a few shallow breaths to steady myself, to stop from screaming. The last time I screamed, he’d made sure I regretted it.

He dragged something closer, it was metal scraping against concrete and light caught it. It looked like medical equipment.

The ropes around my chest cut into my skin, tight enough that I could barely breathe. I was half-naked, bruised, and yet not once did his eyes hold any trace of lust. Only purpose.

He picked up what looked like a scalpel.

Wait.

"Wait—wait—please don’t kill me. Don’t cut me up. Don’t harvest my organs. If it’s money you want, I know someone who’ll pay—please—"

The words broke apart into shuddering sobs. My voice splintered as I squeezed my eyes shut. I couldn’t believe this was how I’d die, me tied up, bleeding, carved open by a man who didn’t even care enough to kill me first.

Then I felt a prick on my left hand.

Oh God. Oh God.

Is he cutting my hand off first?

Is this some twisted fetish?

The tears streamed harder. This time I didn’t try to hold them in. I cried like a child until everything inside me went quiet; then still.

Was I dead?

Was this what the afterlife felt like?

I opened my eyes slowly, expecting light but instead I saw an IV bag hanging over me, a thin tube running into my vein.

Relief hit me like a wave. My body still hurt, but for the first time, it wasn’t dying. I was crying, but at least I was breathing.

"After this, you will resume your whipping session."

My heart plummeted to my stomach.

"You’re treating me... so I’ll have strength for more torture?" My voice shook as I asked.

"Yes." His tone was flat, like he was confirming the weather. He didn’t even glance at me, just adjusted the IV stand, his face unreadable.

"You’re a sick psycho," I spat, my voice cracking but my defiance burning.

"Yes," he answered without hesitation.

"It’s not a fucking question, what the—"

The blade at my throat silenced me. Cold against my flesh and sharp, it was too damn close.

"If I decide to kill you now, nothing will happen," he said matter-of-factly.

He wasn’t wrong. I nodded, tears blurring my vision, my body shaking as fear clawed up my chest.

"Please... I promise... I’ll be silent," I whispered, my words breaking apart like glass. I didn’t care how pathetic I sounded. I just didn’t want to die today.

"It won’t stop anything," he said, his voice a low rumble that chilled the air. "But if it comforts you, I’ll let you breathe for a few more days."

He smiled slowly and deliberately but it felt wrong. The kind of smile that makes the hair on your arms rise.

He pulled the knife from my neck and twirled it in his fingers, tracing the blade against his palm like it was jewelry he was testing.

"I’d love to see the look on their faces when they realize they’ve been fooled," he said with a laugh that echoed off the walls. "Then I’ll put this knife through your stomach until your intestines decorate the floor right in front of them. Then I’ll butcher you into pieces — just like they did to me."

My blood ran cold.

What did he mean they butchered him?

His body was whole. His eyes were alive with hate, not pain.

Before I could ask, his attention shifted toward the shadows.

"Message the boys. Give them the go-ahead to kill Vitellio’s fiancée."

My eyes widened.

No. No, no. I didn’t even like Luca’s fiancée but I didn’t want her dead. Not because of me. Not because of this sick game.

"Please—please," I begged, the words bursting out of me.

"Then drop an anonymous message to Vitellio," he said, voice almost casual. "Tell him Calloway killed his fiancée."

My mind went blank. The world tilted. My breath hitched and everything turned white around the edges.

"Psycho," I whispered, trembling. "You’re a psycho, you’re—"

The slap came before the pain. The sound cracked through the air, then fire exploded across my cheek, sharp and searing. My vision went black at the edges, but I forced myself not to fall.

"Let’s watch them burn," he said, his voice low and thrilled. "Before I decide which tool to butcher this one with."

He crouched close enough that I could feel his breath on my face. The knife traced a slow, deliberate line down my collarbone.

"Knife..." he murmured, pausing, eyes fixed on me.

"Or machete?"

This time, I didn’t answer. My tears fell freely, soaking my bound wrists. My throat closed around a sob I couldn’t swallow.

And he smiled. A wide grin.