The bitch was stubborn.

I tried for days to get her to give up the location of her parents, but she refused. I resorted to torture, which pleased me. At first, I watched as my guards made her suffer, beating her and tightening the ropes around her wrists until they were raw and red. Eventually, I could not refrain from personally seeing to her pain.

"Move aside," I hissed, shoving a guard out of the way and drawing my dagger. "No magic for you, Emma. I want you to suffer by my hands. This is... shall we say... personal."

I pointed the tip of the dagger at her heart and pressed it through the fabric there until a small trickle of blood bubbled up around it and seeped through her shirt. She bit down on her lip and sucked in a gasp. I loved watching her try to hold in the pain. I wouldn't let her win. I tore her shirt open and stared down at her chest. It rose and fell in heaving breaths. I could tell that it hurt her to breathe. Hands trembling in anticipation, I made a slice from her navel to her abdomen, smiling brightly as the blood poured and dripped down her thigh. She hissed in pain, and I laughed. I hadn't laughed so much since Daniel.

In that moment, I knew I was alive. But something inside me stirred, staring at her pale skin. It was covered in scrapes and scars from my clumsy guards - bastards! - who had been so wonderfully rough with her. I wanted her to suffer, but I didn't want her damaged. No, I wanted to do that part myself, with my own hands. I was surprised at the way she simply keeled over before me. What did I see in her face? A loss of hope, I suspect. Seeing this made me shiver from the inside out. I was intoxicated with the control. My hands wrapped around her throat, and I squeezed, feeling my anxieties release as my grip tightened.

When she didn't say anything - she wasn't nearly close to begging yet - I shoved her down onto the floor and kicked her ribs, hearing them crack under my boots. The scream was blood-curdling, and I loved it. Given that her shirt was torn, I cut it off of her as she lay in the fetal position and tossed it outside of the cell.

"Burn it," I instructed my guards. "She won't need it anymore."

It must have been well below freezing in the dungeon. In December, the bitter cold won out over all else. The goosebumps on her arms told me just how much heat she was lacking, and I relished the thought of her laying awake at night, unable to sleep because of the sting of the frost. Miserable. Pathetic. Exactly where and how I wanted her. Before exiting the cell, I kicked her one more time, on the other side, causing her to roll over onto her stomach and puke up a splash of blood and what little bread and water she'd had that morning. Seeing her without her shirt, I could tell she'd already lost weight in the few days I'd held her captive. I was barely feeding her, but I was still unsatisfied with the results.

"Don't feed her in the morning. She can starve until she tells me where her precious parents are."

Truth be told - and I rarely tell it - I was having too much fun with her to worry about the rest of the Charming family. I finally had my hands on what I wanted, and it was all too perfect to be true. She was mine to do with as I pleased, and there was no one to stop me. I imagined Snow and Prince Charming had plans to storm my castle with the pesky loyal dwarfs of theirs, but my fortress was too strong. They wouldn't make it past the castle gate. Emma was all mine, for as long as I wanted her to live. And at that point, I'd decided I wasn't ready for her to die. No, I would drag this out for as long as possible.

After the incident of broken ribs and internal bleeding, she gave in to my every whim. She indulged me when I gave orders and obeyed what I demanded. Of course, she refused to tell me the location of her parents, but that could wait. She would, eventually. I would make sure of that. But anything else I wanted, she gave. Sit. Stand. Turn around. She took the beatings day after day, until I finally grew bored.

"What shall I do to you today, Miss Swan?"

I thought of all the cruelest forms of torture, but none of them seemed sufficient. I cursed myself for not having a better imagination. In that moment, I would have given anything for the rush of the reaction of shock and horror on her face. But it didn't come. No matter how hard I tried to break her, she simply gave in and took whatever punishment I gave, refusing to fight me. I grew restless.

"You've grown complacent," I mused, pacing in front of her. "And that troubles me. What has you down, little princess? Missing mommy and daddy?"

I watched her eyes as she imagined her family. I knew she was thinking of Henry, too. I despised the thought of their reunion. He was my son. Suddenly furious at the thought, I kicked her in the stomach and watched her fall over, bracing herself from the fall but scraping her elbows on the stone floor. I grinned at this. Her beautiful skin, tainted and covered with a combination of red welts, scabs, and open wounds. It was a masterpiece.

But I got no reaction from her, other than the pain in her eyes. There was no more fear, only anticipation of the next blow. This I could not stand for.

"How do I get through to you?" I asked seriously, staring directly into her face.

She looked at me, her eyes confessing the brokenness of her heart. But she wouldn't cry. Couldn't cry. I imagined her tears had all dried up by then. Unable to produce the reaction I wanted, I knelt down beside her and touched her shoulder tenderly.

"Emma," I said softly.

When I finally had brought surprise to her eyes, I thrust my fist against her still-healing broken ribs and listened to her scream. I imagined the blood filling her lungs, partly wishing she would die from the continuous brutal abuse. I tired of trying to get a reaction. It was too much effort, and my lust for her pain was only growing. Finally, though, I brought her to tears and listened to her sob.

AUTHORS NOTE: This story WILL get more feely in later chapters. It won't be all blood and guts.