Page 130 of Buried in Blood
And like a puppet on invisible strings, I follow.
The clutch is still anchored to my side.
A ticking promise tucked beside my heart.
* * *
The door shuts behind me with a sound too final to be anything but a sentence.
The light in his private quarters is low—golden and warm, as if pretending this is anything close to intimacy. As if lighting could blur the edges of what’s about to happen.
Damien doesn’t look back as he walks to the chair in the corner. He sits slowly, deliberately, like a king deciding whether to kill or keep.
“Undress,” he says simply.
I don’t move.
Not at first.
My fingers twitch at my sides. My breath stutters.
Then I do what I always do.
I obey.
Because obedience is survival.
Because disobedience… isn’t an option.
I strip with shaking hands, one button at a time, until I stand exposed, bearing nothing but the clutch. He gestures once—just a flick of his wrist—and I place it on the dresser, far from reach. He watches me the whole time, unblinking. Unfeeling.
When he finally stands, the shift in the air changes everything.
I know that look.
That gait.
The smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
It’s the smile he wore the first time he reminded me who I belonged to.
“You’ve forgotten your place,” he murmurs, circling me like a vulture. “You’ve let someone else make you believe you had options. That you were more than what I made you.”
His hand lifts, gentle at first—cupping my jaw.
Then it snaps sideways, cracking the sting across my cheek.
I don’t fall. I don’t cry. I just breathe.
Because I know the game.
And he hasn’t even started yet.
“Maybe I was too soft on you,” he says, dragging his thumb across my lip. His nail presses down until I taste blood. “Too merciful.”
I stay silent.
I count.
