Owned.
I couldn't breathe right. My lungs refused to expand fully with his arm there, with the weight of him surrounding me on all sides. The pillow trapped my face forward, his chin somewhere near my shoulder, his breath disturbing the hair at the nape of my neck.
"Don't." The word barely made it past my lips.
He said nothing.
Just tightened his hold fractionally—not hurting, but unmistakably possessive. A reminder that my protests changed nothing. That this bed, this room, this body pressed against mine—all of it belonged to him now.
I waited for him to do more. To push further. To take what he'd threatened in the study.
But he didn't move again.
His breathing evened out first—deep, steady, infuriatingly calm. The kind of sleep that came easily to people who'd gotten exactly what they wanted. His arm stayed locked around me, dead weight I couldn't shift without waking him.
I lay rigid in his grip, every nerve firing, every thought spiraling.
This wasn't intimate. This was claiming. Marking territory. Making sure I understood that even sleep offered no escape. That surrender wasn't just expected during waking hours—it was required always. In every moment. In every breath.
I didn't feel safe. The word didn't even begin to touch what churned in my chest. Fear sat thick on my tongue, humiliation burned behind my eyes, rage coiled tight in my stomach with nowhere to go.
But.
God help me.
But.
I didn't feel alone either. And that realization hit worse than anything he'd done in the study. Because I should have felt more alone than ever—trapped, held against my will, surrounded by the man who'd systematically destroyed every boundary I'd tried to maintain.
Instead, some horrible, traitorous part of me registered his presence like comfort.
The warmth seeping into my back.
The steady rhythm of his breathing.
The solid weight of him, grounding and terrible and there.
I hated it. Hated him. Hated myself for noticing the difference between this and the cold, empty bed I'd been curled in moments before.
His arm twitched slightly in sleep, pulling me infinitesimally closer.
A tear slid hot down my cheek, soaking into the pillow.
I didn't make a sound.
I woke to sunlight slicing through curtains I hadn't closed.
The bed was empty beside me.
No weight. No warmth. No arm pinning me in place.
Just silence—the kind that felt intentional. Like he'd left hours ago and wanted me to know it.
My body protested when I moved. Shoulders locked from tension I'd held all night. Jaw sore from clenching. Throat raw in ways I refused to think about. Every muscle screamed that I'd spent eight hours rigid with terror instead of sleeping.
I sat up slowly, sheets pooling around my waist.
Still dressed in yesterday's jeans and wrinkled shirt. The fabric stuck to my skin, damp with sweat and something darker I wouldn't name. My hair fell in tangled knots around my face. I pushed it back with shaking fingers, trying to orient myself.
