The night was lengthy and dark with shadows and silence, but it was light compared to the weight of words echoing in his mind. Tomorrow, I will decide how much to take from you.
Tomorrow came now.
The metal door groaned as it creaked open. The prisoner braced in his chair. His wrists burned from the rope, but he set his chin, his eyes slitted. If he appeared shattered, he'd lose.
The mafia boss entered like a man into his own sanctuary. He moved slowly, being enveloped by confidence that filled the air before he even uttered a word. Smoke swirled around him, curling through the darkened air like scripture.
"Did you imagine me last night?" His voice was level but carried the weight of a boulder that crushed the air.
The prisoner growled. "I imagined you choking on your own ego."
A deep, smooth laugh escaped the boss. "Good. At least you didn't waste the night." He stepped closer, standing near enough for the captive to sense his heat. One hand rested on the arm of the chair, pinning him down. The other trailed up his bound wrist, stroking over mottled skin.
The captive tensed but remained upright. "Is this where you try to scare me into keeping quiet?"
No, the boss breathed, leaning forward until their foreheads were nearly together. "This is where I demonstrate that silence can groan."
The prisoner gasped before he could stop himself. He cursed himself for the moment of weakness.
The captor's smile widened. His hand slid down, fingers curling around the captive's throat, thumb pressing against the pulse hammering there. Not choking—at least not yet—but demanding submission. He leaned closer, lips grazing the captive's ear.
"Your body speaks louder than your mouth ever could," he whispered.
Heat flared—anger, humiliation, and something darker. The captive spat, his voice sharp. "You'll never hear me beg."
"Ah," his captor replied, slowly tracing his thumb along the line of his prisoner's throat to his collarbone. "I don't need you to beg. Not yet, anyway. I simply need to remind you that this," He pressed gingerly, watching his prisoner strain against the ropes, "is now mine."
He pulled his hand down, across the chest, staying to feel each of the rebellious breaths. The prisoner tried to turn away, but bound as he was, each movement made the boss's touch more severe.
"You hate this," the boss breathed, eyes gleaming black. "And yet… your heart doesn't lie."
The prisoner snarled, but the snarl splintered with the shake in his chest. The captor was listening to it, gloating over it, and leaning in so close their mouths almost touched.
"One day soon," he whispered, "you'll hate how much you crave me."
The captive's jaw snapped tight, venom in his voice. "Never."
The smile of the boss was cold and triumphant. He kissed him then—not soft or gentle, but claiming pressure, hard enough to bruise. The captive struggled against the ropes, fury burning in his chest, but beneath it, he felt the shameful flush of his body to prove his words wrong.
When the kiss broke, the boss slowly wiped his thumb over the captive's puffed lip, satisfied with himself.
Tomorrow," he breathed, receding toward the door, "you'll discover what else I can take."
The lock clicked home. There was still a haze of smoke.
The heart of the prisoner pounded against the ropes that held him, anger and outrage coiled into a knot he could not bear. He hated the man. Detested him—
But he hated more what might occur tomorrow.