A/N hey guys, this story came to me in my sleep the other day and i suddenly fell in love with it, i have the whole thing outlined already so i'll try and update as much as possible for you! Just a note, this is an M rated story for a reason, there will be violence, language and lemons...all the good stuff! ;) I don't have a beta atm, but i like to think Microsoft Word is good at grammar and typos etc, however if someone wants to be my beta then i'm game! you'll have to walk me through it though, never had one before! :)

Anyways, on with the show!


He snarled at her, it was vicious and cold, cruel and calculating. In his left hand the kitchen light caught the sharpened shiny blade, scattering the light across the room and over her pale and trembling form. With confidence that he had never held before he advanced towards her, grabbing her roughly by the arm. She screamed, the bloodcurdling sound filling the air though he ignored her pleas, she was pathetic to him at that moment in time. Bringing the blade down upon the wrist of her right hand he sliced quickly and cleanly to another scream. "Never will you hold another mans hand," he sneered as he made another clean and deep cut across her wedding finger on her left, "Never will you marry another man!' he snapped. Dragging her off the blood-soaked floor and up onto the floured countertop. She's been cooking a romantic dinner when he had returned home, highly intoxicated with booze and cocaine. It wasn't like him and she screwed her eyes shut, willing it all to end. She didn't want to look into those abusive grey eyes.

For a moment she felt no pain until finally the blade touched the skin above her lip, digging in before dragging around the outline of the pale pink flesh. She couldn't scream even though her mind begged her too, frightened that if she did the line would be uneven and she would be far worse off. "You will never taste another man," he declared triumphantly before moving up to her eyes, the bright blue orbs now wide in fright. Finally she allowed another scream to pass through her lips though was silenced as the blood flowed into her mouth, effectively gagging her. Drawing the blade near the corner of her left eye he leaned forward, his nose inches from hers, "You will never set eyes on another man, you will only know my face and it will be the most beautiful in the world to you." He hissed, starting to carve the area around her eyes. With the little energy left in her she shoved him away, the blade nicking her temple as it disconnected with her skin. Backing up on the counter she soon tumbled over the other side, landing with a thud on the stone flag floor. Having a centre counter had been such a good idea when they'd initially moved in.

For a moment the world was black until she peeled her eyelids back, instantly wishing she hadn't. In one hand he held a can of petrol, in the other a box of matches. It was then the petrol was decanted onto her, giving her enough time to hold her breath and close her eyes. As it made contact with her bleeding wounds however her mouth gave out, a chilling scream sounding out before he gave a dark laugh, lighting a match and dropping it next to her. Flames instantly engulfing the area around her. He'd doused the kitchen. Flames licked at her skin before catching the petrol and bursting into life across her pale form, she screamed once more, rolling on the floor to try and put out the flames that threatened her life. He was nowhere to be seen. Coward. Her clothes burned her skin, she felt like she was melting, her skin scorching and the smell of burning flesh filled her nostrils as she tried to crawl her way out of the house, the smoke filling her lungs as the flames continued to savage her body, she was going to die, and she knew it…

Eleanor sat bolt upright in her bed, gasping and panting, a light sheen of sweat covering her body. It was a dream. Just a dream she reassured herself. Raising her trembling hands however she was brought crashing back to reality. It wasn't a dream. It had happened to her, exactly two years ago to the day. She hadn't dreamt of that night for nearly ten months. The scars that littered her right wrist and the one across her wedding finger were a constant reminder of her torture. Not to mention the third degree burn marks that covered her pale arm, the pink marks glaring at her as a constant reminder that she had lost any sense of her physical attractiveness that night.

Pulling herself from under her sheets she moved silently to the bathroom, flicking the light on as she went only to squint in the harsh brightness. Running herself a bowl of cold water she splashed her face before rubbing a towel along her neck. She needed to shower. Standing before her floor length mirror she took in her appearance, willing herself not to cry. She stood at your average 5'6, her chocolate locks tumbling from her head and down to her waist though right now they were matted with sweat and from her constant turning in the night. She was slender with curves in all the right places; her mother had always told her she would be a beautiful woman. Little had she known. Finally she brought her bright blue eyes up to her face and flinched at her reflection. The surgeons had done well with what they had been given, but nothing would eradicate the scars that littered her face. One ran along the top line of her lips, another from the outer corner of her left eye right to the inner corner and then there was the chunk on her temple that was missing from the nick of the blade. Thankfully her face hadn't burnt, but the flames had instead claimed nearly the rest of her body. Her stomach, legs, arms and back were abused the most; her chest had thankfully received no ill treatment. She supposed that was a bonus. Tearing her eyes from her reflection she stripped from her nightwear, throwing it into the laundry hamper before stepping into the shower, turning it on to allow the hot water to ease her muscles and cleanse her body of sweat and grime.

An hour later she sat before her computer. It was 7am in London, she hadn't realised how early she had woken. Her body refused to sleep much these days, she was always on high alert and afraid he would return and hurt her even though he hadn't been seen by anyone in months. With a cup of tea in one hand, she logged in with the other, a familiar photograph meeting her. Viktor. She smiled as she took in the image, the pair of them together on a beach in Cornwall, his lips pressed to her cheek in a chaste kiss and her nose scrunched up sweetly in reaction to his affectionate action. Both wore smiles. He'd been her best friend since she'd been two; they'd grown up together even though he was older than her. She hadn't seen him physically in four years, he'd moved to California as soon as he'd turned twenty, stating he needed to see the world and wanted to live the American Dream. She couldn't say no to him, it was what he wanted and he was creatively brilliant that she knew he'd go far if he got to Hollywood. He was the son of two Russian's, a ballerina mother and a mobster father, though there was no way to tell that simply by looking at him. His father was a member of SoIntsevskaya Bratva, notoriously known for murders, drug trafficking and prostitution. Fearing for her son's safety, his mother had fled to London with him from Moscow when he'd been four, it was then the pair had struck up a friendship.

As if he had known she was thinking of him, her laptop bleeped abruptly ending her reminiscing and instead making her laugh as his face popped up on the screen, her own webcam kicking into action to show her own face to him. "Good morning!" came his warm voice, his English laced with a heavy Russian accent. She'd always loved his accent. "Good evening!" she counteracted with her sweet English accent, remembering the time difference and that it was currently 11pm for him. He wore his usual bright smile regardless of the time yet the fuzzy webcam image allowed her to take in little else of his appearance. His smile soon faltered however and his eyebrows drew together in concern, "You're up really early, which only means one thing…" he commented, taking in her bath robe and damp hair.

"They're back." She whispered fearfully.