Her hands trembled as she reached out. Slow. So slow I could feel the moment she broke apart inside herself. Fingers curling around the collar like it weighed more than she did. She fumbled with the clasp. Slipped once. Twice. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall.
Because she knew—there was no forgiveness waiting for her on the other side of weakness.
She wrapped the collar around her throat. Tightened it herself. Fastened the clasp. His fingers used to touch here. Pressed gently. Possessively. Now they didn’t need to.
The metal said what his hands no longer would. Theclickwas soft. Quiet. Final. She lowered her hands to her lap. Head bowed. Breathing shallow.
The collar sat perfectly against her bruised skin. A mark of survival. A mark of ownership. She didn’t look at me. Good. Because there was nothing kind in my face. Only inevitability.
She stayed kneeling by the table. Hands resting lightly against her thighs. Shoulders tight with the effort of holding still.
The collar gleamed against the bruises at her throat. She was learning. Slowly. Painfully. The way all important lessons are learned.
I watched her breathe once. Twice. Measured. Shallow. Like every inhale scraped against cracked ribs. “Strip.”
One word. Not barked. Not growled. Delivered with the same finality as a death sentence.
She flinched—barely. A flicker at the corners of her mouth. Then she moved. Slow. Mechanically.Obedient.
Her fingers shook as she peeled the black shirt over her head. Exposing the bandages. The bruises. The broken pieces of the girl who thought survival meant escape.
The air hit her wounds hard. Her body flinched. But she didn’t make a sound. The pants next. Trembling hands slidingdown her thighs. Peeling away fabric that clung to scabbed knees and split skin.
She stepped out of them with a sharp inhale. Wobbled. Caught herself. Bare. Bruised.Mine.
I said nothing. Because there was nothing left to say. I let her stand there a moment longer. Shivering. Ashamed. Glorious. Then I stepped aside. Gestured to the center of the room.
The mat. The camera. The waiting silence.
“Kneel.”
She walked slowly. Every step a sacrifice. Every breath a prayer. Her knees hit the mat with a soft, wet sound. The breath that left her chest was ragged. Pain blooming behind it.
She pressed her hands behind her back automatically. The way I taught her. The way she remembered even through the haze of bruises and shame. Head bowed. Spine straight. Exposed. Silent. Waiting.
I didn’t move immediately. Let the silence coil around her. Let it tighten. Until her breathing turned shallow. Until the tension in her thighs started trembling.
I circled her once. Slow. Measured. Close enough that the heat of my body brushed her raw skin. Not touching. Never touching. Because touch was mercy. And she hadn’t earned that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
I sat down in the chair. Legs spread. Elbows braced against my knees. Eyes locked on her.
And said?—
“Don’t move.”
The red light on the camera blinked once. Then held steady. Watching. Recording. Owning.
She stayed kneeling where I put her. Naked. Bruised. Silent. Her back was straight, but her shoulders trembled. A fine, visible tremor. From effort. From obedience.
The camera’s red light blinked once above her head. Recording everything. Documenting every second of what she chose to become.
I didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched her breathe. Slow. Measured. Pained. The door creaked open behind me. I didn’t turn. Didn’t need to. I knew who it was by the weight of their steps.
Royal entered first. Casual. Predatory. The scent of expensive cologne and quiet violence followed him into the room. His laugh was low. Amused. “Well, well. You do know how to break them, brother.”
He circled her slowly. Boots whispering against the mat. Hands tucked loosely in his pockets. He didn’t touch her. Not yet. But the heat of his body brushed too close.
I watched her flinch—small. Controlled. Still obedient.
