The first thing Christian felt was weight.
Not pain, though that came next, but the weight of his own body, heavy and uncooperative, pressed against something cold and wet. His breath came shallow and uneven, like the air itself had grown thick. He tried to move, but his arms didn't respond. Something sticky, blood, he realized distantly, had glued his shirt to his back.
Christian's lungs burned with every breath, and though the room was silent, he could feel it… an echo of dominance that lingered long after Benedict had gone. His skin still crawled with it, the phantom weight of the man's pheromones clinging to him like smoke.
That scent, sharp, metallic, and sweet enough to rot, had been his cage.
He shuddered. He knew that smell too well. He'd known it long before this night, long before the bruises and the ropes and the taste of copper on his tongue.
It had been with him at the beginning.
