"Hush now, piccolina," Vincent's deep voice echoes around the opulent bedroom, his 10'5" frame looming over me, chain links jingling softly as he moves. He's holding a bowl of steaming soup, steam curling up into the air like ghostly fingers. His eyes, dark as the abyss, fixate on me with a fierceness that disconnects my breath for a moment.
"I'm not hungry," I stammer, trying to shrink back into the pillows piled behind me.
"Oh, but you must eat, cara mia," he insists, his body inching closer as I feel the cold of the chains bite into my wrists. "Here comes the airplane," he coos, scooping soup with a spoon and moving it towards my lips imitating a plane with absurd enthusiasm.
"I don't want it," I mumble, practically quaking as I press back against the headboard, the metal touching my skin like icy tendrils. "Please..."
Vincent's face morphs, the mock-warmth washing away to reveal a stone-cold severity. "Samantha," he starts, the dangerous timbre of his voice a stark contrast to his earlier playfulness. "When I offer you something, you accept it."
His eyes pin me with a death glare-a look so dark and foreboding, it robs me of the fight in me. Like a switch, my survival instincts flood in, and my mouth opens against my will, allowing the spoon to slide in. The soup is bland, its warmth doing nothing to thaw my icy dread.
"Good girl," he purrs, and it's like nails on a chalkboard. As I swallow, his massive hand engulfs mine, holding it with an iron grip. I slowly start to fidget with his hand in terror.
Vincent's grip on my hand tightens, his touch suffocating, engulfing, and it takes every ounce of willpower I have left not to recoil. With each spoonful of soup he feeds me, I'm reminded that I am nothing but a captive in his twisted game, forced to dance to the tune of his obsession. While my stomach churns with fear and revolt, Vincent's gaze remains fixed on me, his expression a chilling blend of smug satisfaction and possessive adoration.
"Vincent," I manage to choke out, my voice a mere whisper against the oppressive air. "Why... Why are you doing this to me?"
His lips curl into a sardonic smile, the flesh around his eyes creasing in a play of shadows and light, the stark contrast with his piercing black eyes making my skin prickle with unease. "Samantha, cara mia," he breathes, his fingers trailing down my arm, a shiver snaking down my spine. "You're my only light in this murky existence." His tone lingers on the edge of sanity, the sentence like a potion that sends icy tendrils of dread clawing at my insides.
"Let me go, Vincent," I plead, the desperation in my voice a jarring contrast to his cold, cruel disposition. "I don't belong here. I don't belong to you."
His chuckle carries with it a weight too heavy for my quivering heart to bear, his eyes consuming me like the darkness itself. "But you do, Samantha," he declares, his words a twisted symphony of possession and derangement. "You are mine, forever and always. All you need to do is understand."
My resistance wilts under the weight of his words, and as the last spoonful of soup slides down my throat, I feel like a mere puppet ensnared in the strings of a demented puppeteer. Yet, I refuse to succumb entirely to his madness.
"Tell me about your childhood, Vincent," I push, a flicker of defiance reigniting within me. Maybe, just maybe, I can use his egotism to distract him, to find some crack in his icy facade. "Tell me about the world that twisted you into this... this monster."
A glint of avarice flashes in his eyes, and for a moment, I fear I might have gone too far. But as his lips curl into an unsettling smile, he slowly pulls me into his lap, his dress shirt unbuttoned to reveal the tangle of tattoos and scars that decorate the canvas of his muscular abdomen.
