Ashley's POV:
I didn't so much wake up as I surfaced. Exhaustion had pulled me under, a black, heavy tide that offered a few hours of oblivion. But the cold was relentless, seeping up from the concrete floor, through my jeans, and into my bones.
My first conscious thought was a dull, stinging throb from my wrists. I instinctively tried to move them and found I could. The ropes were gone.
I held my hands up in the dim, swinging light. They were raw and bruised, but the deep, bloody grooves the ropes had made... they were clean. And neatly, tightly wrapped in white bandages.
For a second, my mind couldn't process it. Then, a wave of nausea so profound it made me gag rolled through me.
He had done this.
He had come down here while I was unconscious, touched me, cleaned my wounds, and bandaged them. The intimacy of it was a grotesque violation. This wasn't kindness; it was maintenance. The act of a collector polishing his prized possession, tending to the damage he had inflicted so it wouldn't spoil. The thought of his hands on me, so meticulous and careful while I was defenseless, made my skin crawl.
My hatred, which had been a hot, frantic terror, settled into something colder, deeper. A quiet, simmering loathing that felt black and heavy in my gut.
Then I moved my leg, and the illusion of "care" was instantly shattered.
My ankle was cold and heavy. I looked down. A thick iron cuff was locked around my ankle, and a short, heavy chain was bolted to a rusted pipe that ran along the wall.
He hadn't freed me. He had just swapped one restraint for another. The bandages were a lie, and the chain was the truth. A dog, tethered in the dark.
My body tensed before I even heard the sound. It was a sixth sense now, this dread. The slide of the heavy bolt on the outside of the door.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a painful, frantic rhythm. The door creaked open.
Roman stepped inside, framed by the dim light of the hallway. He was holding a tray. It looked obscene in this place of rust and concrete—a bottle of water and a foil-wrapped sandwich. Kidnapper food.
He walked over and placed the tray on the ground, just outside the radius my chain would allow me to reach.
"You need to eat," he stated, his voice flat.
I stared at the spot on the wall just past his shoulder, my jaw tight, my new, cold hatred a shield. "Go to hell."
He sighed, a sound of theatrical patience. He crouched down, bringing him to my level on the floor. His proximity was suffocating; the scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the mold of the basement, creating a smell of luxurious decay. His eyes, fixed on mine, began to darken.
"Ashley. You will eat."
"I'm not eating your poison," I spat, the words tasting like acid.
"It's not a request." He pushed the tray closer, but still just out of reach. "Eat. Now."
For just one second, as his gaze raked over my filthy, chained form, something flickered in their depths. It wasn't just anger. It was something heavier... emotion. Pain, maybe? Regret? It was gone as fast as it appeared, buried back under the cold, hard resolve.
I stared at the water, my throat burning, my stomach a tight, aching knot. But I wouldn't. I wouldn't take anything from him. I wouldn't let him fuel the body he was trying to break.
I turned my face away, pressing my cheek against the cold, damp concrete of the wall. "No."
The silence that followed was heavy and absolute. I could feel his gaze on me, a physical weight. When he moved, it was faster than I could anticipate.
His hand wasn't gentle. He didn't grab my chin. He plunged his fingers into my hair, yanking my head back so hard my neck cracked in protest. A scream of pain tore from my throat as my scalp lit on fire.
He held me fast, his fist twisting, forcing my face toward his until our noses were almost touching. His other hand held my jaw in a pincer-like grip, forcing my eyes to meet his.
His gaze was no longer emotional. It was black, bottomless, and utterly devoid of the man I'd once known.
"You are still trying to defy me," he hissed, his voice a low, venomous vibration that I felt in my teeth. The smell of mint on his breath was a grotesque intimacy. "You think you still have a choice."
"I... won't..." I choked out, tears of pain blurring his face.
"You will," he growled, tightening his grip on my hair. He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear. "You will eat the food I give you. Or I will find another way to fill your throat. And I promise you, moya zvezda..."
He pulled my face back to his, his eyes burning into me.
"It won't be my cock this time. It will be the barrel of my gun. Do you understand me? Open your mouth."
The threat was so raw, so brutal, it shattered the last piece of my defiance. This wasn't a game. He meant it. I could see the absolute, cold conviction in his eyes.
My body trembled violently, a sob of pure terror catching in my chest. My lips parted in a broken, involuntary gasp.
That was all the invitation he needed.
"Good girl."
He released my jaw but kept my head locked in place by my hair. With his free hand, he ripped the foil off the sandwich and tore off a piece.
He didn't shove it. He didn't feed me like an animal. He simply held the piece of bread and meat against my parted lips, an almost human gesture made monstrous by the context.
"Chew," he commanded, his voice flat.
Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the crumbs at the corner of my mouth. I did as I was told. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think. I swallowed. It felt like swallowing glass.
He tore another piece and held it to my mouth. I ate it. Then another. He fed me with a cold, deliberate patience, his eyes never leaving mine, watching me break with every methodical bite.
When half the sandwich was gone, he let go of my hair. My head thumped back against the concrete wall, and I collapsed into a coughing, sobbing heap.
He stood up, brushing the crumbs from his hands. He picked up the bottle of water, unscrewed the cap, and dropped it on the floor next to me, finally within my reach.
"Drink," he said, his voice returning to that terrifying calm. "You'll need your strength for the next lesson."
He turned and walked out of the room, the heavy door groaning shut, the bolt sliding home.
I was left alone in the dark with the taste of my own humiliation. My body's betrayal—needing the food, the water—was almost as painful as his touch. I looked at the clean, white bandages on my wrists, then at the heavy iron on my ankle.
He was a monster who bandaged the wounds he inflicted. And I hated him. I hated him with a clarity and a depth that felt colder and more permanent than the concrete beneath me.
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Author's Note:
Whew!
Roman's new brand of 'relationship goals' really puts the 'hostage' in 'hostage situation,' doesn't it? 😅
Look, at least he remembered the First Aid Kit! Health and safety first, even if you are emotionally destroying your captive.
A true gentleman. 💅 Also, that sandwich? Probably organic, locally sourced despair.
Ashley, honey, you need to save your strength. We've got like, 40 more chapters of this psychological tango.
Grab the water and try not to choke. And seriously, who needs a wedding ring when you have a heavy iron ankle cuff?
That commitment is permanent. 😉
Anyway, buckle up, babes. It only gets worse from here. 😌🔪✨
- Vaanni🖤