I rubbed my wrists as soon as they were free, biting back the urge to flinch under his gaze. His eyes stayed on me. Heavy. Unblinking. Watching every movement I made, like he could already tell what I was thinking. I shifted slightly, my head turning as I scanned the room in silence.
The room was simple but rich. The walls were gray. The bed beneath me had silk sheets, dark as night. A door stood ajar to the side—probably a bathroom. No windows. My stomach twisted. The freedom of my hands was barely anything. Still, the moment I could move, something fluttered inside me. Hope. Or the memory of it.
I told myself I could use this. Pretend to be weak, harmless. Play fragile until I saw an opening. I prayed he wouldn't notice the way my eyes kept darting to the edges of the room, desperate for a way out.
"Cyprian," I whispered suddenly. The name came out broken, dry like gravel in my throat. I swallowed and cleared my voice, but even then it barely held.
His brows lifted slightly. "Cyprian," he repeated softly, almost tasting it on his tongue. Then he smiled—barely, faintly—and said, "I'll call you Cy."
I shivered. Not because I was cold. But because the way he said it sounded…intimate. Too familiar. Like he'd already decided something I hadn't agreed to.
His face was close. Too close. I hated how clear it was up close: the smooth, pale skin, the sharp jawline, the perfectly shaped brows. His nose was straight, almost pretty, the kind of face that belonged on magazine covers, not in nightmares like this. And he smelled good. That was the worst part. Like spice and something expensive I couldn't name. My stomach flipped, not just from fear but from something I didn't want to name either.
I hated him. I hated myself more.
He reached for me again, slowly this time, and before I could react, he lifted me. Just picked me up like I weighed nothing.
"W-what are you doing?" I stammered, panic surging through me.
"Bath," he murmured, carrying me toward the open bathroom door.
My heart thudded. My stomach, still sore from when I was kicked, cramped sharply. I wanted to push him away. I wanted to scream. But my body just… froze. The heat of his hands on me, the scent of his skin so close—my mind blurred at the edges.
I clenched my fists, my face hot with anger, fear, and something else, something worse. My eyes burned. I hated how his touch lingered on my skin, how the nearness made something inside me flutter and twist. I kept telling myself it was just terror. Just the fear.
But I wasn't sure anymore.
And I hated that too.