The room was too quiet.
Mia lay curled on the thin mattress, knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped tight around herself as if she could hold together the pieces of her shattered body. Every breath came in short, broken bursts, trembling as if her lungs were too frightened to expand fully. The sting of the lashes still screamed across her skin—her back, her sides, her arms. Even hours later, her body hadn't realized that the punishment was over. Every movement, every thought brought the memory of him back—Luca, the belt, the sound of her own screams bouncing off the walls of the room.
She hadn't even tried to sleep. The moment her eyes closed, the nightmare replayed itself: his hands, the whip slicing across her skin, the way he had towered over her, cold and unstoppable. She had wanted to leave, to run, but now the memory made her feel weaker than ever.
A quiet click made her jump, her body going rigid.
He was back.
Luca.
Her chest seized with panic as the door opened slowly. She pressed herself back against the headboard, trying to disappear into the corner of the bed, every muscle in her body screaming for escape, though there was nowhere to run.
But he wasn't holding the belt this time.
Instead, he carried a small, black box. Her stomach twisted instinctively as he moved across the room, the calm, measured way he walked making her heart race even faster. He set it on the nightstand beside the bed, shutting the door quietly behind him, as though this were a routine chore, nothing more.
Mia's eyes widened as she recognized the box. A first aid kit.
He lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed near her legs, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. For a moment, he didn't look at her, just snapped the kit open with a precise motion.
"Sit up," he ordered, his voice quiet, controlled, but absolute.
Her body refused. Fingers dug into the sheets for purchase, hands shaking uncontrollably. Each movement felt like it could break her completely.
His eyes finally met hers. Sharp. Dark. Unyielding. The weight of his gaze made her shiver involuntarily. "I said sit up."
Her throat was parched, dry as sand. She wanted to refuse, to scream, to tell him to leave, to never touch her again—but her body betrayed her. Slowly, painfully, she forced herself into a sitting position, every movement tearing at the raw welts that marred her skin.
Luca reached for her arm without hesitation. She jerked violently away, a sharp gasp escaping her lips.
"Don't… please… don't hurt me again—"
"I'm not here to hurt you." His words were clipped, dismissive, almost like he was scolding a child. Then, after a pause, his tone shifted, colder. "Not right now."
Her heart caught. "Not right now." The phrase itself carried a threat, hanging over her like a blade, reminding her that the danger was never far away, that at any moment, cruelty could return.
He grabbed her arm again, firmer this time, pressing a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic against the raw, torn skin.
The pain was immediate. White-hot fire shot through her nerves. She gasped, tried to pull away, but his grip was iron.
"Stay still," Luca said flatly.
Tears slipped down her cheeks before she could stop them. The pain wasn't just physical—it was every touch from him, the closeness, the overwhelming presence, the suffocating dominance he exuded. Even the faint scent of his cologne invaded her senses, making her lungs tighten as though she couldn't breathe.
With each cotton pad he pressed against another wound, she flinched. He never flinched, never hesitated, never softened his movements. His hands were precise, methodical, almost clinical, like this—tending to her wounds—was just another task on an endless list.
And worse, he said nothing.
No apologies. No explanation. No flicker of guilt. Only his silent efficiency, the same hands that had inflicted her pain now meticulously cleaning it.
Her mind spun. Why? Why is he doing this? Is it care—or control? Savior—or monster? The lines had blurred, twisted beyond recognition, and it made her fear him even more than the physical pain ever could.
Finally, his voice broke the silence. Low, deliberate, and impossible to read:
"You're weak," he said. "Too weak. If you keep breaking down like this, you won't survive here."
The words stabbed deeper than any lash.
"I don't want to survive here," she whispered, raw and hoarse.
Something shifted in his expression. Something darker, more twisted, impossible to define. It wasn't pity. It wasn't malice. It was dangerous. Unpredictable.
His hand moved, almost gentle now, cupping her chin and tilting her face toward him. She froze, trembling as if she'd been caught in a trap with no escape.
"You don't get to decide that," he murmured.
His thumb brushed along her jaw, slow, deliberate, a quiet reminder that even her fear, even her survival, belonged to him.
Her heart raced violently. She wanted to scream, to fight, to claw her way free—but she sat rigid, paralyzed, trapped beneath the weight of his presence.
When he finally finished, he packed the first aid kit back into the box, smoothing his sleeves. His expression remained unreadable as he glanced at her one last time.
"Sleep," he said quietly. "You'll need your strength."
And then he left.
The door clicked shut.
Mia didn't move for a long while. Her body was trembling, every muscle refusing to cooperate. Only when the muffled sound of her own sobs broke through the silence did she allow herself to collapse fully against the mattress, burying her face in her arms.
Even through the tears, a thought gnawed at her relentlessly:
She feared him more than ever.
Because now, she understood something terrifying. His care, as methodical and precise as it was, was no relief—it was just another form of control. It was his way of showing her that her body, her pain, even her survival, were in his hands.
She feared not just the cruelty he had inflicted, but the cold, measured way he could be gentle—knowing that this, too, belonged to him.
Even in tending to her wounds, Luca had proven one thing above all: there was no escaping him. Not now. Not ever.
The thought sent chills down her spine as her tears soaked the sheets. She pressed herself tighter into the mattress, but even curled up like a fragile, broken thing, she knew the truth. She was trapped. Trapped by fear, by pain, by him.
And in that quiet, suffocating room, she realized the cruelest part of all: his care was worse than his cruelty, because it reminded her that she was utterly, irrevocably powerless.
Her body still shook from the lingering pain, her chest heaving with sobs. She had survived tonight, but in her heart, she knew that the nightmare wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
Luca owned more than just her body. He owned her fear. Her confusion. Her every waking thought.
And she was left alone to face it, trembling on the bed, knowing she had no choice but to endure.