There are shadows under her eyes that weren't there years ago.
Lines around her mouth from forcing too many fake smiles.
Her shoulders curve inward, protective, like she's trying to take up as little space as possible.
She looks broken.
I look at my body—the curves he mocks, the softness he grabs like it's his to punish.
I look at my eyes—dull, flat, empty—and I search for something.
Anything. Some spark of the woman I used to be.
For just a moment, I find it.
Anger.
It flares in my chest, hot and sharp.
I hate him.
I hate what he's done to me.
I hate that I stay, that I can't find the strength to leave.
The anger feels foreign—like a muscle I haven't used in so long it's atrophied.
But it's there, buried deep beneath the fear and shame, something in me is still alive.
Still mine.
The bathroom door opens.
"The fuck are you doing in here?"
Cain stands in the doorway, his face creased with sleep and irritation.
The anger evaporates instantly, replaced by that familiar cold dread.
"I just needed to use the bathroom," I say quickly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you?—"
"You're always sorry." He steps closer, crowding me against the sink. "Sorry, sorry, sorry. That's all you ever fuckin’ say."
"I know, I?—"
His hand closes around my throat.
Not squeezing. Not yet. Just there.
A reminder of what he could do.
What he has done.
His thumb rests against my pulse, feeling it race, and something like satisfaction flickers in his eyes.
"You're mine, Ripley," he says softly. Tenderly. Like a lover. "You'd be nothing without me. Don't ever forget that."
I can't speak. Can't breathe.
