I can still see the glass in her hand.
The way her fingers trembled—not from fear, but from something deeper. Something that says this isn’t desperation, it’s decision.
And that?
That fucking ruins me.
Because if she had screamed, I could’ve punished her.
If she had fought, I could’ve won.
But this?
This quiet ache she’s drowning in?
I can’t reach it.
Can’t leash it.
Can’t own it.
I lean against the wall and drag my hand through my hair, dragging at the roots, needing the pain to anchor me.
Because for the first time—I didn’t want her to suffer. Not like that.
Not in a way that didn’t include me.
And I hate it.
I hate her for making me feel something that isn’t lust or power or twisted pleasure. I hate the way my stomach churned when I saw her fold in on herself, like her bones were too tired to hold her up.
I wanted to tear the world apart in that moment.
Not for control.
Not for the game.
But for her.
And fuck, that makes me dangerous in a whole new way.
I head for the control room, needing to see her. Needing to know she’s still breathing, still whole—still mine.
The monitor flickers to life.
There she is.
Knees drawn to her chest. Back against the far wall. Staring at nothing.
Her fingers are wrapped around the necklace again—what’s left of it. She’s turning the sharp edge in her palm, over and over, like she wants to feel the pain but not commit to the wound.
Good.
Let it sting.
Let it mark her.
But don’t let it take her from me.
