Violeta had hoped that by some miracle this tactic would have thrown Dante off enough to drop her, but she supposed the miracle was that he had not ripped her head off right then. She curled her trembling fingers around his wrist again and raised her chin in another effort to relieve pressure off her windpipe, rolling her eyes to the ceiling so she would not have to look at him. A glassy sheen coated her gaze, her vision fading in and out. A dark crimson shadow washed over her face as blood rushed to her head through bulging vessels until she felt lightheaded. What part of her hoped for now was that she would pass out before Dante made good on his threats.
It was only when he spoke again that she lowered her gaze with despair. Cruelty and rage twisted his face until she hardly recognized the person staring back at her. A grunt pushed against his palm on her throat as her head hit the wall with a disgusting crack. Her hand slipped away from his wrist and tears fell from her eyes; Dante did not even sound like him, he did not even sound like he was speaking to her. No, she thought with a brief moment of clarity, he could not have been. Years? She had not known him then. But this person had, whoever they were. And they had tormented him. She gasped, surprised that she could do so, and drank greedily at the air.
Her entire body shook in his grasp as he kept her dangling over the edge of unconsciousness. More terrifying thoughts flooded through her mind as his threats--promises of what she knew would be unspeakable horrors--sunk in. Whatever this person had done, he intended to return the favor. In this...illusion. And what could she do? Except beg? Violeta closed her eyes and pinched her face together, willing herself not to crumble helplessly. It was sometime before she could pull words from her mind to speak and when she did she forced herself to look at him, her voice hoarse and tearful, barely above a whimper.