“NO! WAIT!” the young woman yells as the door clicks shut, the sound final and merciless. “Please! Don’t leave me with him!”
Her voice fractures into sniffles that pierce through the lavish room. And without looking at me, she curls into herself on the bed, hair curtaining her face like a mourning veil.
I stand still near the window, the low light carving harsh shadows across my chiseled face, my bandaged hand throbbing in time with my spiked pulse.
She thinks I’m the person who kidnapped her, and the worst part is… some sickening part of me wonders if she’s right.
As she cries into the pillow, I feel it deep within me—that dark, twistingwantuncoiling like smoke through my veins.
I move carefully around the bed, my footsteps silent on the wood, whilst from my pocket, I pull the same bloodied knife she tried to bury into my heart earlier.
When I squat beside her, she flinches, but doesn’t pull away completely. Through the tangled drape of her unplaited black hair, her wide eyes watch me—petrified and haunted while pretending I can’t see her.
“This is yours,” I say quietly, my voice low but rough.
I slide the knife on the bedside table, right beside the glass of water and the bottle of pills.
Then I reach into my other pocket and pull out a key and hold it up between us, letting her see it clearly before setting it down next to the knife.
“That’s for your room,” I continue, never breaking eye contact. “This room locks only from the inside. No one will ever come in here unless you allow it. Not even me. You will be safe here.”
The words leave my mouth before I can catch them. A promise and a dangerous, intimate vow that tastes too much like possession.
I rise quickly, the movement almost like I’m angry with myself, but as I turn away from her, I can feel her eyes on my back—wide, confused, yet still afraid.
“What’s your name?” Her timid voice suddenly cuts through my steps, my hand resting on the door knob.
I pause, the silence stretching between us for a beat, before I slowly side-eye over my shoulder.
She’s propped on one elbow now, tangled hair spilling over her bare shoulders.
“Law,” I answer.
A bitter, disbelieving frown ghosts her lips.
“So, you apparently save women like me after buying them… and your name is Law?” Her hazel eyes sharpen, cutting straight through the dimness. “That’s a little too poetic and convenient, don’t you think? Almost like a pretty lie wrapped in a bloody bow.”
The accusation slithers through me and my jaw clenches, teeth grinding.
I slide my hands into my pockets as I fully turn, and our gazes collide. The tension between us thickens, charged with doubt and something far riskier.
“There’s no ‘apparently’ about it,” I say, my tone cold and flat. “Both are fact.”
Her eyes narrow, searching my face for the evil she’s sure is hiding just beneath the surface. And I let her look, she will only drown in the emptiness she finds there.
“Is this your folks house?” she presses, words laced with uncertainty.
I scan the shadowed room—the towering ceilings, the heavy obsidian furniture, and the wealth that reeks of old blood and new sins.
Of course it seems impossible to her that a man my age could own this kind of darkness.
“No,” I murmur. “It’s mine.”
Her brow creases, lips parting to fire another question, but I can see the exhaustion dragging at her—how her eyelids fight to stay open, and how her words slur at the edges.
“Look,” my tone drops. “You need rest.”
I turn away again before she can respond, fingers wrapping around the cold silver knob.
