"DON'T GET CAUGHT. DON'T GET CAUGHT. DON'T. FUCKING. GET. CAUGHT."
She chanted these words repeatedly, displaying reasons and visualising the aftermath of getting caught.
You'll be bonded. Restrained. Confined. With no freedom over yourself. Prayin...
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I wrapped my fingers around her wrist, fragile and pale, feeling the bones beneath her skin. The faint thrill of control made me tighten my grip, if only for a breath. But she held her silence, refusing to flinch or reveal any sign of weakness. Her pride, stubborn and defiant, felt almost tragic against the stark delicacy of her frame.
Undeniably, she was beautiful—striking, even—but her fragility ran deep. Charging into battle with an opponent she couldn’t hope to overpower was a reckless display of her naivety.
Her defiance, though fierce, seemed almost pitiful; hadn’t she learned the first rule of survival? Commander White had drilled it into me long ago, amidst blood and ash on the scorched earth. Never attack without advantage.
I released her wrist, wiping my hand clean, as though her touch had somehow tainted it. Leaning in, my voice dipped, cold and almost disdainful. “Stop,” I murmured, barely allowing the words to touch her. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
But she didn't listen; her hand swung that knife again, wild and unrelenting. A dark temptation stirred within me—to wrench the blade from her grip, sever the hand that kept lashing out, cleanse myself of her touch.
I could hardly stand the idea of her near me, breathing the same air, our shadows mingling. Yet, the reminder pulsed through my thoughts—she was marked, bound by an invisible claim. Not fully, not yet, but even a single drop of her blood, a hint of harm, and he would know. So I dodged her reckless swing, moving with swift precision, slipping behind her to trap her arms, feeling her struggle held taut and contained within my grasp.
She screamed, tearing at the silence with her cries for freedom, desperate and raw. Her pleas were empty, hollow against the iron weight of the bounds she could never escape. And in that moment, a twisted thought slithered into my mind—letting her go, letting her vanish from my sight. She would be nothing but a burden lifted, a stain wiped clean.
I swallowed, my mind churning with dark possibilities, each one sharper than the last. If she escaped, would he unleash hell, a bloodbath of those who crossed his path, a fury that would fall not just on her but on all of us? Or would he merely laugh, let her slip away, another toy he'd outgrown? I felt the weight of that choice—a risk, a silent wager with my own life and theirs, and I knew what it could cost.
Leaning close, I let my voice slip out, cold and venomous, barely more than a whisper but sharp enough to slice through her hope. “Do you even know the way?” The words seeped out, taunting and twisted, masking the weakness I buried deep as her fate hung in the balance.
She went still, her frame tense yet trembling, as though hope had suddenly flickered alive inside her. She dropped the knife, her chin lifting with a strange, deluded pride, nodding at me as if she were something noble, something pure. My lip curled in disgust as I let go, wiping the place her skin had tainted mine, the ghost of her touch clinging like a stain.
