It won’t.
I’m not watching her in secret anymore.
Not really.
She knows now.
She knows.
And she’s still not running.
That’s the part that turns me on more than anything else.
Not the panic. Not the exposure. The restraint. The way she doesn’t bolt for the door or scream for neighbours or smash the vent open like she still believes escape is the point.
Because I’ve broken prettier girls. Softer girls. Girls with bruises that practically asked for it. Girls who wanted someone to drag them under so they didn’t have to make the decision to drown.
Girls who begged for the moment someone else took control away.
But not her.
Not Tahlia.
She’s fire, not silk.
And now she’s burning herself.
I lean back in the leather chair, fingers steepled, eyes trained on the screen like it’s my altar. The image is grainy, imperfect — just enough distortion to make her feel unreal, like somethingalready half-memory, half-possession. Her lip is bleeding — she’s biting it too hard. Her arms are wrapped around herself like she’s trying to hold something in.
Or keep something out.
I wonder what she’ll do next.
Call someone? Scream? Smash the vent?
Or worse — pretend it’s not there.
The moment she pretends, I’ll know I’ve won.
Because that’s when the rational part of her will start dying. The part that wants to believe in boundaries. In rescue. In consequences. In men who don’t rewrite your DNA with a single fucking look.
She’s close.
I can feel it in the way she doesn’t pace toward the door.
She’s already asking better questions.
She’s not asking how I got in.
She’s not asking how to stop me.
She’s asking what I want.
And that’s the question no one ever survives.
Because what I want changes depending on how much you beg.
What I want depends on how pretty you look when you’re afraid, and how much prettier you look when you’re not.
