Shadows
The sunlight pours in at a perfect angle, its gentle warmth caressing my skin. Curtains drape over the other windows, casting the room into deep shadow and obscuring familiar shapes. I move closer, settling on the windowsill, my forehead pressed lightly against the cool glass as I gaze outside. Silent tears trace down my cheeks as I long for a different life.
The door slams shut behind me, the sound echoing through the room as I suppress a shudder. Goosebumps prickle across my skin, yet I refuse to glance back, already knowing who approaches. The metallic rustle of chains jolts me from my thoughts. A subtle pull at the nape of my neck tightens the collar, leaving me momentarily breathless as its front presses firmly against my windpipe.
“Did you miss me, Angel?” a low, dangerous voice murmurs from behind.
The warmth of his breath grazes the curve of my neck, intimate and deliberate. I glare into the darkness, though I can scarcely see him; I can feel the smirk in the silence between us.
With a sharp tug of the chain coiled around his wrist, he pulls me back against him. The movement is effortless—controlled. One arm bands around my waist, unyielding, while the other slides upward. His fingers curl around my throat, not frantic, not rushed—just enough to remind me exactly who is holding the reins.
“Oh, Angel,” he says, his voice menacing and each syllable deliberate. “I thought I trained you better.”
The tension in the room coils around us in a suffocating cloud. Every glance, every breath, every shift of weight is deliberate—measured and observed.
In the next moment, he was dragging me out of the room, his grip unrelenting as we moved down the corridor. I know exactly where we’re going. My stomach twists in knots as I think about that room and what will possibly happen next.
“I’m sorry, sir.” The words tumble from my lips, unsteady and strained. They lack the composure of a true apology; instead, they tremble like a plea. It has the desired effect. His pace slows, the sharp cadence of his steps softening before he comes to a halt. He turns to face me.
His hand rises, fingers closing around my jaw—not brutally, but with unmistakable authority, firm enough to remind me that resistance would be futile. My breath falters beneath his touch.
“Oh, baby,” he says, his voice roughened at the edges, “an apology isn’t going to save you.”
The words carry a warning, yet when I meet his gaze, I see it—the faintest fracture in his anger. The fury has dimmed, tempered by something more complicated, something almost tender.
