I should ask what he means.
But something inside me won’t let me.
Something inside me whispers that maybe—maybe—he’s not talking about the cage.
Maybe he’s not talking about now.
When I open my mouth, the question dies because his hands tighten, his breath breaks, his lips press against my temple like he’s sorry for something I don’t remember.
I don’t ask because I think some part of me already knows I won’t survive the answer.
His lips stay pressed to my temple, like he’s not ready to let me go.
Like if he lets go, I’ll see something I’m not supposed to.
The chain rattles when I shift in his lap, the cold weight reminding me I’m still locked here.
Still his.
Still where he wants me.
His thumb drags over that scar again.
Slow.
Intentional.
His breath hitches.
But he doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t explain.
And I don’t push.
Not yet.
Because I can feel it—There’s a thread here I’m not supposed to pull.
A door I’m not ready to open.
His hands slide up, threading through my hair, his grip tightening like he’s still afraid I’ll vanish.
Like I’ve ever belonged anywhere else.
“You’ll stay.”
His voice is lower now.
Rougher.
“Yes.”
“You’ll beg for me.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll never ask about the things I’ve buried.”
