I remain silent. Monster circles my throat with his free hand, above the collar. “I’m a precious Flower who Greyson adores.”
“I’m a worthless thing who a monster’s obsessed with,” I mutter. “That’s the fucking truth.”
His hold gradually starts to tighten, beginning to restrict my breathing. I try to break his hold on my wrists so I can reach up and claw at his hands—or his eyes—but I don’t get a chance.
“I’m a precious Flower who Greyson adores,” Monster repeats. “Say it.”
His delusion makes something inside me snap. “No!I won’t feed the lies you’re telling yourself! I fuckinghate you!”
“I’m a precious Flower who Greyson adores.” Monster’s grip on my throat is tight now, so tight that every breath is a wheeze and my lungs start to burn. I struggle against him in earnest, forgetting the dark depression that got a hold of me and reverting to my survival instincts. Unfortunately, all my struggles only amount to a stark reminder that Monster is and always will be stronger than me. He’llalwayshave the upper hand between us—every—time. The tears I’ve desperately tried to hold back spill over, and I release a strained scream of frustration.
Even as he chokes me, as he’s on the verge of possiblykillingme, the psychotic monster continues to chant the mantra—theliethat I’m precious, and he adores me. My struggles weaken from exhaustion and lack of oxygen, until I go limp in his arms, and black spots dance in my vision.
“I’m a precious Flower who Greyson adores,” he repeats again, kissing my cheek. My eyelids start to flutter, and my eyes roll into the back of my head.
I pass out to the sounds of him whispering lies in my ear and the horrible realization that, no matter what I do, my body really is no longer my own.
But then, it never really was.
I wake up an unknown amount of time later, to the feeling of something covering my hands. Something restrictive, that keeps my fingers together. I blink open my eyes, frowning, and slowly sit up in the bed. Automatic lights flicker on over the room, and that’s when I see the bags on my hands.
No, not bags—mitts.Like wool mittens that children use when it’s cold outside, except these ones are attached to bracelets that are locked. My breathing and heart speed as I shake my hands, trying to get them off.It doesn’t work. I grab the sturdy material of the mitts with my teeth and tug as hard as I can—but they don’t budge.
I no longer have use of my hands.I can’t pick anything up, let alone get my collar off. I can’t… I can’t doanything. Monster has rendered me completely helpless with this one thing, and the mental impact is devastating.
I feel like a broken child with no free will of her own. I feel like I’m back at my father’s house, living under his cruel reign, where I might have been able to use my hands—but only to do exactly as I was told. Every move, every action, even most of mythoughtswere ruled by Luther Sharpe. I had no voice, mind, or will of my own—I belonged to my father.
Now, I belong to a man who’s equally as bad. One ruled by delusions of love that manifest as torture. I stare at the mitts, feeling so lost and directionless.What am I supposed to do?How can I get out of here if I can’t even use my hands?
“Those are a temporary precaution,” Monster says. I look up to see him standing in the doorway. I was so lost in my desolation, I didn’t even notice him come in, but he must’ve gotten an alert of some sortwhen I woke up. “They’ll come off very soon if you’re a good girl.” His lips tip up. “I like them more than I should. I love taking care of you, Flower, and those render you mostly unable to take care of yourself.”
Whatever look I give him—desperation, defeat, exhaustion—makes his smile fade.
“Brighten up, Flower. One of the perks of your mitts is that I’ll be a whole lot less worried about the damage you can do… which means I’m free to take you on a walk today. Show you around the fortress. Would you like that?”
I keep staring at him, lost for words, and slowly direct my gaze at the floor.
“No-no,” Monster chides. He crosses the room and cups my chin in his hand, lifting my gaze to his own. “Look at me,” he urges. “I’m all you need, and you’re all I need. Don’t get lost in your thoughts.” He kisses my head, ignoring my mild flinch. “Come on. Let’s get you dressed.”
Dressed.I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but I’ve been without clothes for most of that time, and I miss the feeling of material covering my skin. I’m too shy to ever enjoy blatant nudity, but my likes and dislikes, my personal preferences, seem to have no bearing whatsoever on Greyson’s decision-making.
He leads me out of the room. I barely take note of the apartment layout, too lost in my own thoughts to focus. Monster takes me into a bedroom and dresses me gently. I’m helpless with these fucking mitts, so all I can do is brace my hands on his shoulders for balance as he helps me into panties and a bra, fastening the clip behind me, and then dresses me in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt—both my size, albeit a bit baggy. Finally, he sits me on the bed and kneels, pulling socks on my feet and slipping sneakers over them, lacing them up.
It's… strange, seeing him in this subservient position. He seems genuinely content to do this—dress me as if I’m a child.
Or maybe, he really is caring for me because I am precious to him, after all…
No.I can’t think like that.
“You’re going to see some guys outside,” Monster tells me. “Most of them are working, working out, or fucking around in the rec rooms, but there’ll be a few stragglers around.” He cups my chin, a gesture he seems to really enjoy, directing my gaze to his. “Don’t speak to them unless they directly address you. Even then, they should be going through me.”
“Because I’m your property,” I murmur sullenly. Because I no longer have a voice of my own—Monster speaks for me.
“No, baby. Because you’re far too good for them—all of them. They don’t deserve to talk to you.”
“Yet you do?”
“No,” he says simply. “I don’t, either, but I’m a piece of shit who doesn’t let things likedeservecome between him and the person he loves.” He strokes over my bottom lip. “But I’m the only person who gets to talk to my precious Flower.” His hand lowers to my collar, and he tugs at it a little to glimpse the scratches on it. His lips thin, and he gives me a look steeped with displeasure.
