He tugs my head back even further, and then, with no warning, lashes out with his hand, slapping me so hard that my face snaps to the side, despite his tight grip on my hair. My scalp burns as the flesh stretches, a couple of hair strands violently ripping out in the process.
I can't hold it in. A pained scream bursts out of me, and he slaps me again.
"Shut the fuck up."
I whimper, and he gives me another slap, and another, until they all blur together, my face stinging and radiating heat with each strike. The last one drives the corner of my lip into my teeth, and I feel the flesh tear, the metallic, coppery taste of blood filling my mouth.
Finally, he lets go of my hair with a satisfied grunt and gets to his feet. I hold my breath, praying he's had enough. Praying he'll just leave.
But then—his voice, low and lethal:
