Villainess Marked For Her Alpha-Chapter 140: Like a Broken Doll Ready for Her Tea Party

"I SAID TELL ME!!"

Hellen lunged feral for the hammer slick with his own shin-blood, swinging it full overhead in a vicious arc—crunch shattering his right kneecap to wet powder instant, bone fragments grinding audible under splitting skin as agony locked his jaw mute rigid, body convulsing violent silent spasms against the biting ropes, veins bulging neck desperate.

Drool bubbled thick and foaming from his gaping mouth, spilling down chin in ropes as Hellen hooked fresh tubes into the raw gashes on his cheeks—plunging needles deep with twists, blood jetting warm to wet her gloved hands glossy crimson while he gurgled voiceless horror.

"You don’t have the right to breathe near her, let alone hurt her—and you laid hands on the love of my life," she hissed low venom, eyes black pits.

"This was the hand, right—the one that slapped her pretty face?"

She grabbed his right arm pinned taut, hefting the hammer heavy—then bludgeoned relentless, swing after meaty swing pulverizing flesh to ruin till the hand existed no more, just mangled stump oozing pulp and shards.

Blood sprayed fine mist to speckle her face like war paint as she turned slow to his left, hammer dripping.

"And this hand—is this the filthy one that slapped her, pulled her hair?" Her gaze bored ice-picks into his. :Is this the one?"

Viktor’s vision blurred red haze, tears carving endless rivers as he tried to beg—eyes rolling pleading forgiveness for his hands, his life, grovelling in his mind at her feet, at Emily’s—anything to stop the nightmare.

"I still can’t wrap my head around it—you hurting such an innocent omega, my soft, precious girl who curls so cute and trusting in my arms, all wide emerald eyes and quiet trust," Hellen murmured almost dreamy, thumb tracing a bloody smear on his cheekbone.

"I love her like that—moulded perfect to me, scent perfect just for my nose."

"But you hurt her. Were your actions correct, Viktor? Touching what’s mine?"

"No—your actions were wrong. Dead wrong, unforgivable filth."

"Viktor, tell me the goddamn reason—why snatch her, beat her? My mind’s twisting hard to grasp it, but I need it out your mouth."

She sauntered to the tray deliberate, selecting long pliers gleaming cold—tapping them gentle mocking on his slack cheek plink-plink, then circling to his head side slow.

"Your nails will be now pulled out, okay? Besides, your hands are already useless.

Gripping his left pinkie nail steady, she clamped and pulled deliberate—one by one, slow twists ripping keratin free with wet pops, blood welling bright from raw quicks as ten nails piled bloody on his heaving chest like grotesque jewels.

Viktor screamed internal thunder—agony lancing white-hot fingers as drips pattered hot from mangled tips, face contorting eternal silent wail.

"Your nails are all gone now—does this feel sad, Viktor? Empty like your soul?" She cooed mock-pity, pliers hovering next finger.

"Oh, come on—let’s make you talk proper." She snatched a syringe from the tray, thrusting the needle deep into his jugular neck with a hiss—injecting slow push without pulling free, plunger empty.

"Let’s make you think deep, okay? Replay every slap."

"Oh—seems I grabbed the wrong vial by accident. This one? Amplifies pain receptors tenfold—every nerve screaming symphony now."

Viktor’s eyes leaked fresh rivers endless, pleading wild as he tried forming words—lips flapping mute.

Hellen resumed merciless, plier-clamping each finger joint next—snapping clean through bone with crunches, stacking severed digits pyramid on his belly like trophies, then kneeling to pry toenails free one-by-ten, blood pooling sticky under the bed.

All Viktor felt was pain infinite—waves crashing endless, sharper than knives; death tempted sweet mercy harder than enduring this hell alive. 𝕗𝗿𝕖𝐞𝐰𝗲𝕓𝐧𝕠𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝐨𝚖

"Emily is like those orange tabby cats, Viktor—zero self-preservation, just fluffy cute and foolish, rubbing trusting on strangers’ legs. Adorable idiots we crave anyway."

"But that foolishness? It’s what hooks us deep, makes fools of us all."

"Loving her wasn’t hard—not one bit. Even if she wasn’t your blood spawn, you had no right destroying her life slow poison. Did you beat her black as a kid too, huh? Slap the light from her eyes?"

Viktor squeezed lids shut tight, bracing rigid for the next wave—yes, he had, fists raining on tiny Emily for every ’weakness,’ guilt flickering buried under terror.

"Viktor, you’re a bad, bad body—don’t you dare close those eyes. I want to see your pretty tears sparkle." She fetched sharp tweezers from the tray gleaming, jamming them to force his right lid pried wide permanent, pinning it back cruel.

"Cops won’t sniff here for you—we leaked word you escaped custody slick, vanished like smoke."

"My father hammered winner into my bones—no mercy. Mother taught if I kill for my people, it ain’t sin—it’s justice pure."

"So this? Pure justice for my girl—for Emily. No matter how many bodies stack to pave it."

"Viktor, remember my father’s funeral clear? You strutted in smug—I craved snapping your neck right there amid the wreaths. Looking back? Bad timing."

"If I’d killed you then, Emily would have stayed blind to your pathetic lies forever. But if I’d ended you early... you couldn’t have hurt her like this."

"Tch—let’s fix that mistake proper now, shall we?"

Tweezers clamped his eyeball sclera vise-tight—she pulled slow, deliberate drag as optic nerve stretched taut snapping wet; the glistening orb dropped free to roll on his cheek before her boot crushed it flat with a grotesque pop, jelly and fluid squirting under tread.

His remaining left eye stared hollow and wild, socket leaking thick blood in steady rivulets down his temple to pool sticky in his matted hair. "Yeah... I have a perfect idea for that empty hole."

Hellen turned casual to the tray, plucking a wilted white lily—petals bruised brown-edged—from a rusted vase, the same funeral bloom he’d tossed mock-pious on her father’s casket years back.

"This exact one—what you draped over my father’s body to play saint. This flower."

She jammed the stem brutal deep into the raw, pulsing socket—twisting deliberate as thorns scraped bone, petals blooming grotesque from the orbit, blood soaking white to pink sludge while green stalk protruded obscene.

"Looks perfect now. Oh my god, Viktor—you look so pretty! Like a broken doll ready for her tea party." Her laugh bubbled low and unhinged, gloved fingers patting the ’flower’ gentle to seat firm.