“Move away from the container,” he ordered.
I obeyed without thinking, my body reacting before fear could catch up.
He circled me once.
Slow. Deliberate.
Like a predator inspecting wounded prey, deciding where to bite first.
Each step scraped softly against the concrete, measured and unhurried, and I felt him behind me even when I couldn’t see him—felt the gravity of his presence dragging the air from my lungs.
When he stopped directly in front of me, he was so close I had to tilt my head back to breathe.
I could smell him now.
Cedar and smoke—expensive, restrained—cut with something darker beneath.
“Your beauty will not charm me,” he said quietly.
The words were barely above a whisper, yet they carried—sliding straight into my hearing aid, seeping into my bones, lodging there like ice.
His breath brushed my forehead, warm, controlled, intimate in a way that made my skin crawl.
“I am not a man who forgets.”
I shook my head frantically, curls falling loose from their pins, eyes burning as I tried to communicate anything—everything—at once. Fear. Denial. Truth. Desperation.
He lifted my chin with two fingers.
The touch was gentle. Almost tender.
That frightened me more than brutality ever could.
“Why have you been quiet?” he asked softly. “Say something.”
My lips trembled.
I tried.
God, I tried.
The effort tore through damaged tissue like fire ripping through silk. Pain detonated in my throat, sharp and immediate, stealing my breath. I tasted metal before I felt it—hot, unmistakable.
Blood welled instantly.
It spilled over my lower lip, thick and red, dripping onto his fingers, sliding down onto the pristine white of his shirt like a sacrilege.
I gasped in horror and jerked back, hands flying up in frantic, broken sign language.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry.
Over and over again.
My wrists shook violently. My vision blurred.
