His Prisoner 21+

45

The dawn arrived sluggishly, casting a dim light over the room. Emaan stirred weakly beneath the duvet, her body aching from every small movement. Each muscle screamed in protest as if she had been torn apart. The air was thick with the remnants of last night's violence, and her mind struggled to piece together the events that had transpired.

For a moment, she lay still, too afraid to open her eyes. Her body trembled uncontrollably, her heart pounding with the memories of Arzal's brutality. Every bruise and cut throbbed, a cruel reminder of her helplessness. The dried residue of tears clung to her cheeks, but her body had no more strength to cry. She was numb and drained.

Finally, she forced her eyes open, her vision blurred from exhaustion. The room was eerily silent, and Arzal was nowhere in sight. Relief was fleeting, however, as her attempt to move sent a searing pain through her body. She gasped, biting her lip to stifle a cry. Her lower body throbbed, a raw, agonizing reminder of the blood that now stained the duvet and smeared her thighs.

Her hand, which had been burning in pain, felt oddly numb. She raised it weakly, her eyes widening at the sight of the fiberglass cast encasing her entire hand—back, palm, and all five fingers, with only the tips left exposed. He hadn't left a single part of her hand untouched, confining it as if to remind her that even her fingers were his possession. The swelling and throbbing of her hand made even the smallest movement unbearable.

She sat there, reeling from the sight of her hand, when she felt a lightweight on her foot. Glancing down, her breath caught in her throat. Her foot was chained to the bedpost, the cold metal biting into her skin. This was the last straw. Her heart raced, panic swelling inside her. He had chained her like an animal, like a dog. Arzal wasn't just cruel—he was a monster. A true devil in the facade of a man, and she had failed to recognize the depths of his cruelty until now.

Her vision blurred as sobs racked her body, the reality of her situation crashing down on her with the weight of a thousand chains. She pulled at the chain in desperation, but it only tightened, cutting into her already raw skin. A cry of frustration and pain escaped her lips. She was trapped, confined like a prisoner. The length of the chain allowed her just enough freedom to move around the bedroom and into the bathroom, but nowhere beyond.

Emaan crumbled, collapsing into herself as her sobs soaked the pillow beneath her. The despair was suffocating. She had no strength left, no hope to cling to. She was his, bound not only by physical pain but by the unrelenting weight of his control.

Gathering the last remains of her strength, Emaan forced herself to get out of bed. She couldn't stay here, in this filthy prison he had made for her. She had to clean herself, even if it was just to scrape off the remnants of his touch. Her body screamed in protest as she slowly dragged herself to the bathroom, the heavy chain clinking behind her with each agonizing step. The cold tile floor felt like ice beneath her bare feet, each step a battle against her own pain.

When she reached the mirror, she almost didn't recognize the reflection staring back at her. The woman in the glass was a shadow of herself, her hair tangled and wild, her face swollen with dark, hollow eyes staring back at her. The cut on her lip throbbed painfully, while her arms, neck, and thighs were covered in dark bruises, each one a grotesque reminder of the violence she had endured.

Unable to look at herself any longer, Emaan turned away, feeling a wave of nausea wash over her. The humiliation, the pain—it was too much to bear. She forced herself into the shower, letting the hot water scald her skin as with difficulty, she scrubbed at her body using one hand, trying to wash away the horror, the violation. Her nails clawed at her skin in desperation, leaving her already bruised flesh raw and burning. But no matter how hard she scrubbed, his marks remained—both on her body and in her soul.