“You don’t get to die,” I whisper against her cheek. “You belong to me.”
She shudders. Just once. But I feel it all the way through my bones.
“You want to punish me?” I breathe. “Break something? Then do it. Scream. Burn the whole fucking place down. I’ll rebuild it. I’ll chain you to the ashes and call it home.”
I loosen my grip—just slightly.
Just enough for her wrists to move if she wants.
She doesn’t.
She just looks at me, hollow and trembling, and for a second… I wish I were different. I wish I could pull her into my arms and say something kind. Gentle. Human.
But I’m not kind.
I’m not gentle.
And whatever scraps of humanity I have left are too bloodstained to offer without making her dirtier too.
So I settle for this.
Leaning in.
Pressing my forehead to hers.
Breathing her in like it’s the only thing keeping me alive.
“Next time you try to leave me,” I whisper, voice shaking, “you won’t get a second chance.”
I release her wrists. One at a time.
Step back like it costs me something. Like there’s a leash digging into my throat and I just gave her the end of it.
She doesn’t move.
Doesn’t speak.
But she watches me as I walk away—like she’s finally seeing the kind of man who doesn’t just want to possess her body, but her despair too.
Because if she’s going to unravel, it’s going to be in my hands.
And nowhere else.
I leave the room, but I don’t get far.
The door clicks shut behind me and I freeze, palm still pressed to the wood like I’m waiting to feel her heartbeat through it. Like I could.
She didn’t scream.
She didn’t cry.
And that silence—it’s so much worse than any sound she could make.
I pace.
Back and forth in the hallway, boots pounding the floor like the storm in my chest needs an outlet, like movement will scrub the image of her tear-streaked face from behind my eyes.
It won’t.
