𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 [18+]

- 29 -

I first notice the heaviness in my limbs and the dull ache in my wrists. My eyes flutter open to unfamiliar surroundings—dark wood, deep red curtains, and the faint scent of leather. Val's bedroom.

I blink away the remnants of sleep, my mind foggy, trying to piece together the events that led me here.

The second thing I notice is my naked self. Self-consciousness creeps through as I cover myself with my arms. Fuck, where are my clothes?

I remember Val ripping all of them off me last night. It's not on the floor; he must've taken them.

"Fucking hell!" I curse, heat creeping into my bare skin.

He knew it. He wanted this to happen. To depend on him for everything, that's what he feeds off. Humiliating me. Shoving my pride back in my face. Showing me who has the power here.

I never really noticed this room last night. But now, when I look around, the first thing that strikes me is the darkness. The dark wood walls are polished to perfection, and the bed I'm sitting on dominates the room, with thick, black satin sheets that slide against my bare skin.

To the left is a large door, which I assume is a closet. A sleek, dark desk sits in the corner, papers stacked neatly, an empty whiskey glass from days left on it, which I never noticed last night.

There are no photos, no personal touches. No signs of the man behind the facade.

And then there's the scent. That lingering, intoxicating scent of him—clean, sharp, with a hint of something dangerous. It's everywhere, clinging to the air, to the sheets, to my skin. It's like I can't escape him, even when he's not here.

The memory of last night comes rushing back, and my chest tightens, the echo of his words replaying in my head.

"I hate you."

"I can live with that."

I push myself up slowly, wincing as the movement sends a sharp pain through my wrists. I glance down and see the deep red lines, the marks from the ropes still etched into my skin. My breath catches, and I swallow hard, willing myself not to cry again.

The room is silent now, too quiet. I glance at the door—locked. Of course, it is. Panic claws at my throat, but I force it down, my mind racing.

I'm alone for now.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my bare feet touching the cold wooden floor. My body feels heavy and worn out, but I can't stay here. Not in his bed. Not in his house.

What time was it?  How long had I slept?

I shuffle to the bathroom, the mirror reflecting a version of me I barely recognise. My hair is tangled, my eyes red and puffy, but it's the emptiness in them that scares me the most. I don't know who I am anymore, not after this.