Up close, there is nothing wild about him. His expression is controlled, his posture relaxed in a way that suggests confidence rather than cruelty. He rubs his beard slowly, like someone buying himself time.
“I wanted to see if you wanted me to untie you for the night,” he says quietly. “But I didn’t want to wake you. You’re awake.”
I am now, I think, but I don’t say it. There is no amusement in his voice, but no threat, either.
He steps inside, and the door shuts slightly behind him, muting the light until the room sinks back into soft gray. He doesn’t advance. He doesn’t posture. The control is already established, and he knows it.
I lower my gaze, offering him less than he wants. “That would help with sleeping.”
When I look at him again, I do it deliberately, just long enough to read what he hasn’t said out loud. His gaze stays on my face. Focused. Intent. It doesn’t wander, doesn’t linger where it shouldn’t. There is nothing soft in it, but there is something there all the same.
Interest.
He notices me, but he simply refuses to act on it.
That restraint tells me more than hunger ever could. If he were cruel, this would already be worse. If he were weak, it would already be over. Instead, he stands there, measured and unmoved, insisting—at least to himself—that I am nothing more than leverage.
Which means the rules still matter to him.
And rules can be bent.
“Can I trust you if I take them off?” he asks. His voice is smooth and even, the edge beneath it restrained, deliberate, as if he’s testing the shape of my answer rather than looking for reassurance.
I shift just enough to draw his attention. The restraintshold firm, forcing my shoulders back and pulling the fabric of my shirt tight across my chest. It’s a small movement. It does exactly what I intend it to do.
“Of course,” I say calmly. “It’s not like I can go anywhere.”
His attention lingers, not on the door or the windows, but on me. On the restraints. On the bed.
He isn’t measuring escape routes anymore.
He’s weighing what happens if he changes the rules.
I tested every weakness earlier today. He already knows that. The ties are precautionary now, not a necessity.
Something tightens through his neck. His breathing pauses, just long enough to notice, before he reins it back in.
His eyes return to my face, sharper now, as if he’s aware he revealed more than he meant to. Whatever crossed his expression disappears as quickly as it came.
That restraint tells me everything.
Whatever line he refuses to cross is still intact. Which means there’s room to press against it.
I sense it in the way his attention locks instead of drifting, in the subtle shift of his breathing when our eyes meet. He recognizes where this could go. He’s waiting to see whether I’ll take it there.
This isn’t desire. It’s opportunity.
The realization tightens low in my stomach, a precise mix of nerves and calculation. I don’t want him. I don’t trust him. But I understand leverage when I see it, and I understand men like him even better.
If I guide this, if I stay in control of it, this could be my way out.
I let my body relax back into the mattress instead of pulling away. When I look at him again, I soften myexpression on purpose, lowering my voice until it sounds measured instead of desperate.
“Well,” I say quietly, “maybe you could help make this situation more tolerable in other ways, too.”
He doesn’t move right away. His intense stare sharpens, searching my face as if to confirm this is real and not panic talking.
“And what exactly are you suggesting?” he asks. The edge in his voice is still there, but the mockery is gone. So is any assumption.
