The first thing he noticed was the weight on his wrists. The rope bit deep and coarse, binding him to the chair like an animal. His head throbbed from the blow that had knocked him down, but fragmented memories sifted back: the gloved hand at his ribs, the cold steel pressed against his side, the muffled growl of a man's voice promising, "You won't be so mouthy when you're mine."
Now that he was awake, he opened his eyes in the dim light of a basement where the shadows seemed to have teeth. One bulb dangled above his head, swinging with the wind. Rust and stale smoke permeated the air from the wet, gray concrete walls. His lips curled even with the agony.
"Great decorating," he rasped, his voice scraping. "Did you redecorate from the prison catalog?"
The door groaned as metal on metal rasped. Quiet fell upon the room like velvet. A man moved through, tall and calm. In his black suit, he appeared smooth, the jacket unbuttoned to show a shining silk shirt. Cigarette smoke curled from his mouth, coiling around his face like a crown of darkness.
"Still having a sharp tongue," the man said, drawing out the words. His voice was smooth, the drawl suggesting riches and old violence. "Good. I prefer my toys to bite."
The prisoner lifted his chin and sneered over the crusting blood at the corner of his mouth. "You'll find I bite back harder than I bark."
The man smiled slowly, a menacing glint. He moved into the room at his own pace, his shoes clicking softly against the concrete floor. Each footstep was measured and deliberate, made to be noticed. He stopped just close enough for his cigarette smoke to caress the prisoner's face. He leaned forward, his fingers tracing along the captive's jaw, his head yanking back as if it belonged to him.
"Your mouth," the captive snarled, thumb pushing against the lower lip, "will discover sweeter uses soon enough."
The captive attempted to pull his head back, but the ropes held him in place. He experienced a rush of unwanted warmth in his chest—anger, yes, but something else. Something deadly. He swallowed it and spat, "You believe trapping me makes you powerful? Weak."
A low, rich laugh came after. "No. Shattering you, will make me strong." His hand moved further down the throat of the prisoner, his pressure light against the open cavity there. Not enough to kill—just enough to remind him how fast he could.
The prisoner's pulse beat against that thumb. He hated that the man could feel it. He hated worse the way his own body was in revolt, gasping for breath, clenching at his chest, every nerve singing alive at that contact.
The captor's head bent forward, his lips against the shell of the captive's ear, his voice a silken blade. "Each man thinks he can stand firm. Until he learns what it is to crave the hand that holds the chain."
A shiver ran down his spine before he could check it. His defiance wavered for an instant before it reared again, sharp and more desolate. "I will never crave you."
The man smiled into his ear, slow and deliberate. He drew back just far enough to capture his eyes, dark irises shining like onyx in the low light. "You already do."
His fingers released, leaving the prisoner's skin searing and prickling where he'd touched. The man shifted, gliding back toward the door with the same slow ease. He paused in the doorway, exhaling another plume of smoke.
"Tomorrow," he breathed, "I control how much I take from you. Tonight, I'll leave it to your imagination."
The bulb swayed again when the door shut, plunging the captive back into darkness. His wrists ached, his throat burned where fingers had clamped in, and unwillingly, his body shuddered—not with fear alone.
And deep inside the darkness, one terrifying question simmered: What if tomorrow comes?