My Heart's Headed for the Lonely Shore

Mason looked up, disbelief etched across his face. “What?”

Only Joseph’s eyes were visible above the mask—dark and cold as ink. Their chill made Mariah shiver.

“I said, no anesthetic.”

He repeated the words, deliberate and calm, as though discussing the weather.

Mason hesitated. “But it’ll be excruciating.”

Joseph cut him off, his gaze sharpening. “Do as I say.”

With a sigh, Mason relented. “Then you’ll have to hold her steady.”

Joseph’s hands clamped down on Mariah’s shoulders, his grip so tight she felt her bones might snap.

Her voice began to tremble. “Joseph, you can’t do this.”

His tone was utterly flat. “Keep your hand still.”

When the first drop of antiseptic touched the wound, Mariah gasped—a sharp hiss of pain.

It felt like a branding iron pressed into her flesh, the agony shooting from her fingertips straight to her brain.

Instinctively, she tried to jerk her hand back, but Joseph seized her wrist, pinning it down.

“Don’t move,” he ordered coldly, his hold unyielding.

“It hurts… it really hurts.”

Tears welled up and spilled over, tracing hot paths down her cheeks.

She had never imagined a day when Joseph would be the one causing her such pain.

Ignoring her, Joseph kept his eyes fixed coldly on Mason as the doctor continued dabbing at every wound with a cotton swab.

“Why…” she choked out, “why are you doing this to me?”

Joseph pressed his lips together, looking down at her from his height. “I’m teaching you a lesson. Remember this pain.”

In the eyes she had once loved so deeply, there was now only indifference—and a flicker of something almost like satisfaction.

Mason picked up a scalpel and began trimming the dead skin around the wounds.

The blade scraped against raw, sensitive tissue. A guttural scream tore from Mariah’s throat, her body convulsing in a desperate struggle.

Joseph was ready. He used his body to press her against the operating table, his knee pinning her legs, rendering her immobile.

“Joseph! Please, give me the anesthetic—I can’t take it anymore…”

She sobbed, her voice breaking apart.

Mason couldn’t bear it, glancing at Joseph. “Joe, maybe just a little anesthetic…”

“No,” Joseph refused without hesitation. “She hasn’t admitted she was wrong yet.”

Mason could only try to persuade Mariah. “Mariah, just apologize to him. Why put yourself through this?”

Mariah’s consciousness was starting to blur, her vision swimming with black spots. Only the pain remained crystal clear.

She remembered the first time she saw Joseph, smiling in the sunlight in a white shirt.

She remembered the gentle look in his eyes when he made her ginger tea late at night.

She remembered the firmness in his voice when he said, “I’ll always protect you.”

Those memories burst like soap bubbles, one by one, under the onslaught of agony.

All that tenderness had been an illusion. This was the real Joseph—a man who had never truly loved her.

Exhausted from crying, Mariah lifted her gaze, her voice so faint it was almost inaudible.

“I was wrong…”

The tension in Joseph’s jaw finally eased. “Mason, give her the anesthetic. The best one you have. Put it on my personal account.”

The imported stuff lived up to its reputation. The anesthetic took effect quickly.

Mariah lifted her head, her swollen eyes meeting Joseph’s directly.

In that moment, Joseph saw something in her gaze that made his heart lurch.

Not anger. Not hatred. But a complete, utter deadness.

Unsettled, Joseph looked away. He reached out and brushed a hand over Mariah’s sweat-drenched hair. “Good girl. I’ll go get some hot water to clean you up.”