She stares back, breathing hard, every muscle locked in resistance. But she’s still here, still in my space. Still kneeling and playing my game. And I can’t wait to see what happens when she finally breaks.
She kneels at my feet, her spine stiff, her hands curled into fists against her thighs. She’s still reeling, still burning from the humiliation I forced on her, and yet she refuses to crumble.
Defiant little thing.
I grab my tumbler from the table and bring it to my lips, the ice-cold vodka slicing through the warmth of the room as I takea slow sip. The burn is clean, sharp. Not unlike the look in her eyes when she glares up at me, barely concealing the loathing simmering beneath the surface.
I let the silence stretch, watching her. Watching the way she fights herself, the way she’s choking on her obedience. She could have spat the food in my face. Could have lashed out in one final, desperate attempt at control. But she didn’t.
Because on some level, she knows.
I own her now.
I fought it the same way. I still do. But she doesn’t need to know that. All she needs to know is I’m all she has left.
But with every push, there must be a pull. So while I’d prefer to slam her body over the dining room table and stripe her ass red for her mouthy little fucking outburst with my belt, I contain myself.
Even though I rarely do things I don’t want to do, I still give her an out. I tip my glass slightly, ice clinking, and say, almost lazily, “Since you refuse to eat, you can return to your room.”
It’s safer for her this way. I can feel my temptation and curiosity start to bleed outside the lines. It’s dangerous for everyone involved.
Her breath shudders in her chest, but she stays still.
Doesn’t move.
Doesn’t take the offer.
I smirk, swirling the glass in my hand. She wants to play. What a good girl. “You want to stay?” The flicker of hesitation she fails to mask is intoxicating. “Or do you just want to be difficult?”
Still, nothing.
She’s holding out, but I can see the war in her eyes. She’s unraveling, thread by thread, too stubborn to notice how close she is to coming apart.
Oh, darling, me too.
I finish the rest of my drink in one sharp swallow, then lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, meeting her gaze with the kind of patience that should terrify her.
And then, finally, she breaks.
Slowly, stiffly, she moves, shifting onto her heels, preparing to stand.
I smile.
Wrong move.
“You’re not allowed to walk,” I say, my voice cutting through the air like the crack of a whip.
She freezes.
Her breath catches, and her hands twitch at her sides. The look she gives me is pure, undiluted disbelief. “What?”
I set the empty glass down beside me with a quiet clink. “You heard me.” I tilt my head, drinking in the fury that overtakes her features. “If you’d like to leave, you may do so on your hands and knees.”
The room tightens around us. The air between us turns thick, electric.
Her fingers curl into fists, her knuckles turning white. “No,” she grits out, “I won’t.”
I hum, running my tongue over my teeth, amused as I watch her lips quiver. “You will.”
