I never noticed before, they’re brown.
Very dark brown, almost swallowed whole by his pupils, but not black. There’s something worse about that. Something more alive. Like death would be easier if he looked less like the man I knew and more like the thing people call him when he isn’t around to hear it.
The knife slips under the rope.
One clean slice.
The tension vanishes so suddenly my arms jerk and pain rips through my wrists. A sound leaves me before I can stop it—small, ragged, humiliating.
He folds the knife closed.
“Up.”
My fingers curl uselessly against my lap.
For a second, I can’t move.
His gaze drops once to my wrists, then back to my face.
“Up,” he says, voice low and flat, “Now.”
I swallow hard and push myself up on shaking legs.
The room tilts immediately. My knees threaten to give.
His hand closes around my wrist before I can hit the floor. Firm enough to keep me upright. I hate that my body reacts to that like it’s mercy.
He lets go the second I find my balance.
“Walk.”
I do.
Because what else am I going to do? Fight him? Run?
He guides me to the couch with one hand at my arm, more steering than holding, and sits me down like he’s placing something where he wants it. Positioning.
“Hands where I can see them.”
I obey before I even realize I’m doing it.
He crouches in front of the coffee table, opens the kit, and starts pulling things out with the same calm he used with the knife. Gauze. Alcohol. Cotton. Tape.
I watch every movement.
Waiting.
Still waiting for the real violence to start.
Instead, he reaches for my chin. I flinch so hard it’s automatic. His hand pauses in midair.
For one endless second, neither of us move.
Then he catches my jaw anyway. Tilts my face toward the light.
The sting of antiseptic hits a second before the cotton does.
My eyes water instantly. He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t warn me.
