(In response to a review posted, all will become clear eventually with regards to the character's background and his motivations, I've still got a long way to go with this story. It may be more personal than we first assume. I'm sure Jane, despite her predicament, will succeed in getting inside this guy's head. Fair warning for this chapter, there will be some descriptions of violence, which may be slightly disturbing, so if that's not something you'd like to read, I would perhaps skim over some parts. Thanks for sticking with this so far, and feel free to leave any comments, reviews or queries.)

Jane Rizzoli was no stranger to pain. She's suffered, both psychologically and physically, at the hands of more than one violent offender. The palms of her hands were pierced viciously by Charles Hoyt, rendering them useless for months. She put a bullet through her own body for chrissakes. She suffered gut wrenching agony for many weeks and months as a result. She was Detective Jane Rizzoli, she could take it. But this was different. This was nothing but pain, pain, pain. No relief. No respite. No cool, calming touch of the experienced Doctor Isles to soothe the agony, provide comfort and a sense of blessed relief. All she wanted was to be held in the arms of her best friend. The arms that, although perfectly proportional to her petite body, were so much stronger than they first appear. Much like the Doc herself. All she wanted was to lie side by side with the smaller woman, laugh with her and feel her reassuring warmth against her own body. But Jane knew that whatever might have happened between them, had she only grown a set of goddamn balls and admitted her feelings, was now impossible. She would never kiss Doctor Maura Isles. She would never feel her, hold her, touch her or taste her. She was going to die alone. Alone in the dark and in pain.

His latest prey was screaming. Oh how he relished it when they screamed. They all start differently, some of them scream from the very moment he lifted the whip and dangled it almost teasingly before their eyes whilst they lie, immobilised, upon what he likes to call his 'Work Station.' Others are able to withstand the first few cracks of the whip against the bare skin of their backs. Some of the rare animals even last to stroke number five, but those were damned hard to find. He fashioned his preferred instrument of torture himself. A short comfortable handle which nestled snugly in the palm of his well practiced hand, attached to a few thin strands of leather, one of which contained a small knot near the bottom of that particular length of material. He ha used his whip so many times now that it had almost become an extension of himself. They were at one with each other. The whip can respond to him in a manner most humans fail to achieve; with complete compliance. Sometimes, he and the whip encounter one of the rarer breeds of the animals. One that, in the correct circumstances, might prove dangerous to them both. 'But,' he assured himself, stroking the whip gently with one calloused finger, 'She's ours now. She won't hurt us.'

"Why don't you just scream Janie? You will eventually succumb to the pain; why not simply embrace it now?" Jane blinked sweat and unshed tears from her eyes and injected every ounce of hatred she could muster into the unblinking glare she had latched onto him when she first woke. She was yet to turn away.

"Fuck you." She snarled, spitting out at the only part of him she could reach; his feet, clad in expensive looking loafers. His low chuckle turned her stomach over and she fought valiantly against the bile that insistently climbed the back of her throat like an intrepid mountaineer.

"Oh tut tut Detective, would Doctor Isles approve of such vile language?" Jane bucked violently against the cords binding her to what resembled an autopsy table, much like the ones she came into contact with every single day. At the mention of that familiar name, Jane jerked up, her eyes wild, her expression rabid and filled with the intense fury one could only summon when confronted with something so hateful, so evil, that words were not enough to convey the immense loathing writhing inside.

"DON'T YOU DARE SAY HER NAME!" She howled, her voice breaking on the last syllable. She didn't care. She didn't care about anything except making sure that sweet name never crossed his fucking lips ever again. Although his face was still shrouded in darkness, Jane was sure that she could make out rugged stubble and piercing blue eyes on the face of her tormentor. She was also sure that they had never crossed paths before. Jane Rizzoli didn't easily forget faces. Her experience in the field had taught her that if you want to stay alive, then you have to remain focussed on the people you surround yourself with, indirectly or purposefully. 'Pity,' she thought with a rueful grimace, 'Could have been doing with a little more of that sensitivity training. Perhaps I could have politely offered to buy him a beer in the Dirty Robber to talk things through.' The whip swiping through the air with a distinct whistling sound that instantly froze every particle of her being put an end to her thoughts. The pain was instant and overwhelming as the material opened fresh wounds and sliced deeper into existing ones. And she finally screamed. Jane Rizzoli screamed and screamed as she felt her own wet, warm blood soak into her skin, her jeans, and the table she was lying trussed up on like a damn Christmas turkey. He allowed her a minute to recover before bringing the whip down again. He slammed it into her back with a ferocious grunt, causing yet more screams to tear free from her burning throat.

"Tell me to stop. Just say stop." He purred delicately, bending down to whisper in Jane's ear. She twisted her head just enough to stare into his eyes. Her tongue pushed against her bottom lip, tasting sweat and tears and blood. She looked deep into his eyes. She was close enough to see the tiny wrinkles etched lightly into tanned, weather beaten skin.

"Fuck. You." She hissed. Before the second word even fully left her mouth, he had reared back and brought the whip down for the third time in roughly the same number of minutes. The pain was so bright and all consuming it brought stars bursting onto Jane's vision. It started in the cuts and resonated through her entire body, beyond skin and muscle and bone, directly into the very core of her being. And it throbbed. The pain echoed and throbbed in the most awful drumming beat known to man kind. He had beaten her on the first day. He had left her a bloody, broken, beaten mess of bruises, cuts, abrasions and internal agony. He had burned her the second day. He had produced a tiny match and held it against the soles of her feet whilst she howled out every curse, every threat that she could possibly think of. But that was nothing, nothing compared to this. These... Searing, white hot strips of fire upon her skin. Skin she had bathed, cleaned and taken for granted. Skin that would now bear these scars for the rest of her life. If they even had the chance to develop into scars. Jane sobbed, great heaving sobs that wracked her body, leaving her breathless.

The Detective laid there, a shivering, bloody wreck. She watched warily through bleary eyes as he lovingly washed the blood from the instrument in his hands using a damp sponge. "Why are you doing this?" The words slipped out of her in a raspy growl before she could stop them. Her question gave him pause for a moment. After a few seconds of silence, filled only by Jane's laboured breathing, he slowly turned back to face his victim and offered her an almost genuine smile. Almost. The look he gave her bore some resemblance to the look one might grant a young child, one who had misunderstood something of great importance and needed a patient explanation.

"Because you're my greatest challenge Detective Rizzoli. I want to break you down and leave your rotting corpse somewhere your precious Doctor Isles will find you. And I want to watch her cry over your lifeless body."