Shattered Innocence

XIX

Lily
*MAYBE THE PAIN TWISTED SOMETHING IN MY HEAD***
17 years old.

I woke up slowly, the weight of exhaustion pulling me back under as I tried to focus. My body ached, a dull, throbbing pain radiating from my back, and when I shifted, I realized why. His arms were wrapped tightly around me, like iron chains holding me in place.

Death.

My heart pounded in my chest as the memories rushed back—his knife, the searing pain, the way he marked me. I swallowed hard, trying not to let the panic rise. He was so close, his warmth pressing against me, and yet I felt cold, like ice had settled deep inside me.

I could feel his breath on my neck, steady and calm, in such stark contrast to the chaos raging inside me. I was trapped. Even now, in this moment of quiet, I felt like I was drowning in his presence, unable to escape the suffocating darkness he carried with him.

I shifted slightly, testing the limits of his hold, and his grip tightened instantly. "Don't move," he murmured, his voice low and commanding, still heavy with sleep. His arms pulled me closer, his breath warm against my skin.

I froze, unsure of what to do. Every instinct told me to run, to get as far away from him as possible, but there was nowhere to go. I was his, marked, claimed. The pain in my back was a constant reminder of that.

"Good girl," he whispered, his voice softer now, almost a murmur.

My throat felt tight, and I swallowed hard, fighting back the urge to cry. I didn't want to be here, in this room, in his arms. But I had no choice. He had made sure of that.

"Why?" The word slipped out before I could stop it, barely more than a whisper, but it hung in the air between us, heavy and filled with the weight of everything that had happened.

He was quiet for a moment, his breath steady against my neck, his grip unyielding. I could feel the tension in the air as if he was deciding how to respond. The silence was suffocating, but I didn't dare move.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low, barely a rasp. "Because I can."

The coldness in his words made my heart lurch. There was no remorse, no hesitation. Just a simple statement of fact. The reality of it sunk deep into my bones, a harsh reminder that I wasn't dealing with someone who cared about reason or fairness. He did this because he wanted to, because he had the power to.

A tear slipped down my cheek, but I quickly wiped it away. Showing weakness in front of him felt like giving him more control, more fuel for whatever dark, twisted need he had to break me.

"Does it make you feel better?" I asked, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. "To hurt me like this?"

He shifted, his grip loosening just enough for him to look down at me. I could feel his eyes on me, studying my face, searching for something. His thumb grazed my cheek, wiping away the tear I missed. "It makes me feel in control," he said, his tone softer but no less chilling. "And that's what matters."

I closed my eyes, trying to suppress the wave of emotion crashing over me. I didn't want to give him any more of my fear, any more of myself than he had already taken. But it felt impossible.

I kept my eyes closed, bracing myself for whatever came next. But then, his voice softened unexpectedly. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his lips brushing the edge of my ear.

For a moment, I thought I misheard him. Sorry? How could he be sorry for this? It made no sense, not after everything he had done. I wanted to believe it was a lie, just another manipulation, but there was something different in the way he said it. A brief flicker of something almost human.