I'm trying to move again, throwing myself against the walls of my prison with renewed violence. My fingers, just twitch them. My toes, curl them. My mouth, open it, make a sound, do something. The desperation is overwhelming, consuming. I need to respond. Need to show him. Need to break free.
And then I feel it. The smallest movement. My lips—did they just move? Did I just—
No. Impossible. I imagined it.
But he's still talking, still calling me his slut, his whore, his perfect little treasure, and the pleasure is building, building, that familiar tension coiling tighter with every thrust of his ridged cock.
"Come for me," he commands, his hand tightening on my throat. "Come on my cock like the desperate little slut you are."
Yes. Yes, I am. Your whore. Your slut. Your treasure. Your prisoner. Your love. Your victim. All of it. Everything. And I do come. I come so hard I see stars behind my sightless eyes, pleasure crashing through me in waves, and—
My lips part. I feel them move. And a sound—the barest whisper of a breath—escapes.
Oh God. Oh God, did that just happen?
He doesn't seem to notice, too lost in his own pleasure, still fucking me through my orgasm, and I'm reeling. Did I really just move? Did I really just make a sound? Or am I so desperate, so starved for any sense of control, that I'm hallucinating it?
I don't know. I don't know anything anymore.
He's coming now, filling me, and I feel every pulse of his cock, every ridge swelling slightly as he empties himself inside me. His claws are digging into my hips, his tail wrapped tight around my leg, and he's groaning my name.
"Adelaide. My Adelaide. Mine."
Yours. I'm yours. I hate that it's true. I hate that I want it to be true.
His claws are on my hips, digging in, and I feel blood well up. The sting is exquisite, grounding, real. He's fucking me harder than before now, more aggressive, and I can hear it in his voic, something is changing. Something is breaking in him, just like something is breaking in me.
Our lovemaking is becoming longer and more aggressive. More demanding. Just more.
We're both losing ourselves in this. Both becoming something other than what we were.
He should stop. Should be gentler. But I don't want gentle. I want this. The violence, the aggression, the way he uses my body like he can't control himself. It makes me feel powerful in a twisted way. Even frozen, even helpless, I have this effect on him. I drive him to this.
He's choking me again, and I love it. Love the way his clawed hand wraps around my throat, love the way my vision goes dark. Darker than the darkness I already live in—love the way everything narrows down to just this moment, this sensation, this desperate need for air and pleasure all mixed together.
And then I feel it again. My lips moving. Wider this time. And a sound—a soft, breathy moan—escapes.
I did it. I really did it. That wasn't my imagination.
The magic is breaking. Something is changing. After seventy-three years of absolute stillness, I moved. I made a sound.
Terror and hope war inside me in equal measure. If the curse is breaking, if I'm waking up, then I'll have to face everything. Face him. Face what I've become. Face the truth that I don't want to wake up because waking up means having to choose, and I don't know what I'll choose.
He's still fucking me, still lost in his own pleasure, and I'm trying again. Trying to move my fingers, my toes, anything. The effort is exhausting, like pushing against a mountain, but I'm more aggressive about it now. More violent. I throw everything I have at the invisible walls, battering myself against them with desperate fury.
Move. Move. MOVE.
Nothing. Just my lips. Just that one small sound.
But it's something. It's more than I've had in seventy-three years.
He comes again, filling me, and this time when my orgasm hits, I feel my lips part again. Another sound escapes—louder this time, almost a whimper.
Did he hear it? Does he know?
He's pulling out, arranging me on the bed, and I'm still reeling from the realization. I moved. I made sounds. The curse is weakening.
And I don't know if I'm relieved or terrified.
