Cold floors and closed doors
The chains around her wrists had left their mark; hunger dulled everything. The bed moaned with each shallow breath she took, its frame cold and uninviting, just like the man who had abandoned her there days ago, leaving her with only darkness and silence.
He had silver hair that complimented his eyes, like winter-sharp, grey, and endless. She’d tried to fight back once. He’d only smiled, the kind that makes you wonder who the real prisoner is.
But tonight was different. She heard his footsteps before she saw him, his boots dragging slowly across the stone floor as if he were hesitating. That was a new…
The door creaked open, and he stepped inside without a word. His presence filled the room before his voice ever did—broad shoulders wrapped in a worn denim jacket, silver hair slicked back with just enough effort to show he still cared. He moved with certainty, like he never questioned his decisions.
He didn’t look at her right away.
His boots pounded softly against the stone floor. There was no rush in him. No need for theatrics. He knew what he was—strong, in control, older and unapologetically so. A man used to being feared, Respected, and Obeyed.
But the silence, it stopped him.
She didn’t scream, not this time.
He took a glimpse…No snarling threats. No curses through dry lips. Just the faint rattle of rusty chains and the shallow rise and fall of her chest. She was still—limp, almost… Her frame barely covered by the torn clothes she wore. The cold air wrapped to her skin, but she didn’t shiver.
She just watched him through strands of hair and tired eyes.
For the first time, he felt something shift.
He approached, cautiously, and reached for the shackle around her left wrist. She tensed—jerked, scared of his touch.
He froze, standing over her.
Then, a cocky grin pulled at the edge of his mouth.
“Easy there,” he muttered, voice thick with a southern accent. “Ain’t gonna take nothin’ off you yet.”
The cuff clicked open.
Her arm dropped limply to the bed.
He crouched down beside her—not too close, but close enough that she could smell sweat, whisky and faint tobacco. He pulled a water bottle from his jacket. He held it out in his gloved hand.
“You wanna live, you drink,” he said simply.
She didn’t reach for it.
Didn’t trust him.
He let the silence stretch.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he added after a moment. “I’ve got a job to do, can’t have you dying on me — not yet".
Still, he offered her the bottle.
Still, he waited.
Her eyes shifted from his gaze to the glistening ripples of the water bottle in his gloved hand; it made her mouth water, her heart pound.
Her eyes wandered gloomily to his, searching for anything to trust in.
He glared at her impatiently.
He scoffed, unscrewing the lid…
He took a sip, opening his mouth to show he had drank some.
“AHHH-Refreshing —see, now it’s your turn, doll,” he slowly held the tip of the water bottle to her parched lips.
She closed her eyes hesitantly, letting it trickle over her tongue; seeping down her throat.
He stopped when she started coughing, gasping for air.
She quickly gazed back at him, holding out her hand for more.
Desperation lingering in her eyes.
He searched her face with a furrowed brow, suddenly concerned over the bloodlust over a simple bottle of water…
“You’re a thirsty one, ain’t you,” his lips turned into the usual charming grin.
He held the bottle over her, dangling it teasingly.
“If you’re good I’ll give you a bite to eat” he winked, and stood up, hands in his denim coat, chewing something. His clean leather boots clicked against the floor.
She snatched the bottle and drank, eyes fixed on his tall muscular frame, watching his every move.
His grin became a smile, he made his way around the bed and crouched beside her again, not close enough to touch, but close enough that she could smell the whisky and sweat again, feel his presence press into the cold of the room.
He met her stare for a moment longer than he should have, then looked away.
“Don’t get comfortable,” he muttered, standing again and brushing his palms off on his jeans.
He paced a few steps, pulling a phone from his jacket.
“I’ll be getting a call soon,” he said, voice tighter now, more matter-of-fact. “Guy’s waiting. Client. He’s paid half already. The rest comes when your kidney’s boxed and ready for transport.”
He realised she was breathing heavier upon hearing the news, her eyes widened, her skin went pale.
Her fingers gripped the empty water bottle until it crinkled in her hand.
He looked at her for too long.
Long enough to notice how her collarbone jutted out from under the torn neckline of her shirt. And her exposed curves of her thigh from her tattered shorts she was wearing.
After a short and uncomfortable pause, she launched the bottle, hitting him square on the head.
She clawed at the other chain with her free hand, screaming and kicking her legs in a defiant rage.
The calmness from moments ago had vanished after hearing the unfortunate news.
He frowned when the bottle hit him—it snapped him out of his trance. He almost looked pitiful, as if he were questioning whether what he was doing was wrong.
“Well, that was just plain rude,” he smirked, striding over to the bed. He easily grabbed her wrist and tied the chain around it—tighter than before.
Leaning in close, one hand gripping the metal bed frame, the faint scent of roses clung to his clothes—perhaps a cologne.
“You’re not getting anywhere misbehaving like that, sweet cheeks,” he murmured, his smile quickly turning serious.
She spat at him, missing his face by inches, then slumped back down, exhausted.
He chuckled to himself at her disobedience—her stubbornness to keep fighting. He found it almost endearing.
He scoffed at her attempts and pushed himself off the bed, making the frame quiver—the sound of metal scraping against the floor.
“You little… you just lost your invite to dinner.”
He pulled a sandwich in a paper bag from his jacket and threw it beside the bed, just out of her reach.
“I’ll be back when you’ve learned to behave. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”
He walked toward the door, glancing back for a moment.
She was crying…
Why did he turn back? He didn’t know. He shouldn’t have.
She was sobbing quietly to herself, and he had to fight everything in him not to go back and comfort her. He couldn’t let himself get attached…
His mind wandered back to his late wife—liver failure. She never got a replacement in time.
He had tried everything to find one. That’s why he ended up in this mess. Sadly, it was too late.
Now he was stuck here. Paying off his debt.
He hesitated for a moment before turning away and stepping out the door, shutting it behind him.
He leaned against it with a heavy sigh, then locked it and walked away, hands in his pockets, head down…
