Ashley's POV:
The basement was a void of time. I didn't know if it had been hours or days since the searing agony of the brand on my chest. I only knew the rhythm of the pain—the throb in my collarbone, the ache in my wrists, the cold metal biting into my ankle.
I was huddled in the corner, trying to shield the fresh burn from the damp air, when the heavy bolt slid back.
Roman entered. The light from the hallway silhouetted his broad frame, casting a long shadow that stretched over me like a cage. He held a tray, the smell of roasted chicken and warm bread wafting into the stale air. It was nauseatingly domestic.
He set the tray down, but he didn't slide it toward me. Instead, he crouched in front of me, tearing a piece of the roasted chicken with his own fingers.
"Open," he commanded softly.
I glared at him, summoning every ounce of defiance left in my exhausted body. "I have hands, Roman. I can feed myself."
He didn't blink. He didn't even acknowledge my rebellion. He simply pressed the food against my lips, his thumb brushing my trembling bottom lip with a possessiveness that made my breath hitch.
"I said open, Ashley."
I clenched my jaw, staring him down. But my stomach roared in protest, betraying me. With a sharp exhale of defeat, I parted my lips, and he slid the food into my mouth.
He fed me slowly, methodically, bite by bite. He didn't look at the food. His eyes were locked on mine, burning with a terrifying, dark intensity. He watched my jaw move, watched me swallow, his gaze devouring me more completely than I devoured the meal.
I hated it. I hated the way his focus made the rest of the world disappear. He was humiliating me, and every swallow felt like another pound of flesh lost to his control. When his thumb grazed my cheek, wiping away a stray crumb, I suppressed a shudder of pure revulsion.
Monster. You are a monster. I will never forget what you did.
When the plate was empty, he wiped my lip again, his eyes darkening. "Good girl."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of silver handcuffs.
"The basement served its purpose," he said smoothly, unlocking the chain from my ankle with one hand while gripping my arm with the other. "You've learned your lesson. Now, you come home."
He pulled me to my feet. My legs were stiff, trembling under my own weight, but I locked my knees, refusing to collapse into him.
"I'm not going anywhere with you," I hissed, trying to wrench my arm free.
"You are going exactly where I tell you," he countered effortlessly, snapping the handcuffs onto my wrists. They clicked shut, tight and cold.
"Come."
He led me up the stairs, his hand firm on my back. I stumbled, and he instantly steadied me, his grip shifting from forceful to supportive. I hated the ease with which he held me, hated the concern in his movements. It was all a mask for his cruelty.
We emerged from the dark, suffocating basement into the pristine, climate-controlled hallway of the main house. The air smelled of lemon polish and beeswax. It was jarring, a surreal shift from hell to a palace.
He didn't stop until we reached the master suite. He pushed the double doors open, revealing the massive room I remembered—the fireplace, the silk sheets, the wall of windows. But he guided me past the bed, straight into the master bathroom.
It was a cavern of white marble and gold fixtures. Steam was already rising from the massive soaking tub, filling the room with a warm, misty haze.
"This..." I stammered, my mind reeling to catch up. "What is this? You lock me in a dungeon, you burn my skin, and now... a bath?"
Roman turned to me, his gaze sweeping over my filthy, torn clothes with a look of distaste that felt completely disconnected from the violence he'd just inflicted. "Strip," he ordered softly. "You smell like the past. I want you clean."
I lifted my chin, staring him dead in the eye, my voice trembling with disbelief. "Are you insane? You can't just... switch it off. You can't be a torturer one minute and a husband the next."
"I can be whatever you need me to be, Ashley," he replied calmly, unbuttoning his cuffs. "And right now, you need to be cleansed."
"Turn around," I demanded, though my voice lacked its usual bite. I was too disoriented.
His lip quirked, a ghost of a smirk playing on his face. "No."
"I'm not doing it while you watch," I spat, clutching my bound hands to my chest. Hatred. Only hatred. How does he not see how twisted this is?
"I've seen every inch of you, Ashley. I've branded you. Do not pretend we have secrets." His voice dropped, losing its humor. "Strip. Or I will cut the clothes off you myself."
I knew he meant it. Tears of frustration pricked my eyes, hot and humiliating. With shaking fingers, I struggled out of my ruined shirt and jeans, throwing them on the floor with as much venom as I could muster. I stood before him, naked, vulnerable, the angry red brand on my collarbone screaming against my pale skin.
I waited for a crude comment, a leer. But he just looked at the brand, his expression shifting into something reverent.
"Beautiful," he murmured.
My stomach flipped with nausea. Liar. Monster. I stepped into the tub quickly, the hot water engulfing me, cutting off his gaze.
I sank down, the water stinging my raw wrists and the brand on my chest. I hissed, but beneath the pain, the warmth was undeniably sedating.
Then I heard the water splash behind me.
I stiffened, whipping my head around. Roman was there, kneeling by the tub, sleeves rolled up. He held a sponge lathered with scented soap.
"Relax," he murmured.
He began to scrub my back.
"Stop!" I gasped, jerking away. "What is wrong with you? How can you touch me like this after what you did?"
"Shh." He caught my wrist, his wet fingers slick against my skin, and moved my hand away gently—too gently. "You're tense. Let me take care of you."
"Take care of me?" I choked out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. "You destroyed me, Roman! You don't get to wash the wounds you inflicted!"
"I am the only one who gets to touch them," he corrected, his voice dark and absolute. "I broke you to keep you, Ashley. Now I am putting you back together. Better than before."
He resumed scrubbing, his touch firm but methodical. He moved the sponge in slow circles, washing away the grime. Every touch was an invasion, a reminder that I was powerless. I clamped my eyes shut, letting the clean scent of the soap fuel my anger. I will never forgive you for this.
He paused, drying my back with the sponge before standing. "Up."
I stood, shivering as the cool air hit my wet skin. He wrapped a thick, fluffy towel around me, pulling it tight, cocooning me. He rubbed my arms briskly, his face inches from mine.
He lifted me easily, setting me on the cool marble counter of the vanity. The mirror reflected us—him, dark and imposing; me, small, pale, and wrapped in white terrycloth.
He handed me a silver hairbrush. "Brush."
I took it, glaring at him in the reflection. "You're enjoying this, aren't you? Playing with your doll. Pretending none of the blood is real."
"You are not a doll, Ashley," he said quietly, his eyes meeting mine in the glass. "Dolls don't have your fire. Dolls don't fight back. I love the fire. But I love taming it even more."
He took the brush from my hand when I hesitated too long and began to pull it through my tangled, wet hair himself.
"You're alive," he murmured, his fingers grazing my scalp. "Vibrant. That's why I need you. That's why I'll never let you go."
I watched him in the mirror, his face a mask of intense concentration. He looked devoted, but all I saw was the owner tending to his property. The hatred was a cold stone in my gut.
When he finished, he set the brush down and scooped me up bridal style. I instinctively wrapped an arm around his neck to steady myself—a purely physical reaction, not a choice. My face buried in the crook of his neck, and I inhaled his scent—rain, cologne, and him. I instantly pulled my head back.
Don't give him an inch.
He carried me into the closet, sat me down on the velvet dressing chair, and selected a set of pale pink silk pajamas. He dressed me efficiently, his knuckles grazing my skin, sending sparks of disgust through my nerves.
He moved behind me with a hairdryer, the warm air rushing over me.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," he said, his voice audible over the hum. He leaned down, his lips brushing my damp ear. "To care for you. To have you sit here, in my home, letting me tend to you."
He turned off the dryer and spun the chair around, bracing his hands on the armrests, trapping me. His eyes were wide, swirling with a dark, intense emotion that felt suffocating.
"You are a princess here, Ashley," he whispered, his voice trembling with conviction. "You don't need to worry about anything anymore. No decisions. No fear. No struggle. The world outside doesn't exist. All I want from you is your submission. Your obedience. Just give me that, and I will give you the universe."
I stared at him, my breath hitching. It was madness. Pure, distilled madness wrapped in silk and violence. He truly believed he was saving me. The realization was more terrifying than his anger.
"I don't want your universe," I started, the words bubbling up in a frantic rush. "I hate—"
He cut me off instantly, placing a single finger against my lips. The touch was gentle, warm, and maddeningly dismissive.
"Shh," he murmured, shaking his head slightly. He looked at me not with anger, but with the indulgent patience one might show a tired child. "No more fighting tonight, Sunbeam. Words are unnecessary now. Just accept it."
My protest died in my throat, smothered by his absolute refusal to hear it. He didn't care about my defiance; he simply brushed it aside like it was nothing more than noise.
"Come."
He picked me up again and carried me to the massive bed. He set me down gently, but he didn't climb in immediately. He walked to the nightstand and picked up a book—a leather-bound classic.
"Do you want to read?" he asked, holding it out. "It will help quiet your mind."
I stared at the book, then at him. Five minutes ago he was a warden; now he was a librarian offering bedtime stories? My mind was screaming, a chaotic mess of trauma and exhaustion. I needed an escape. I needed to not be here for a while.
Slowly, reluctantly, I nodded.
He handed me the book and adjusted the pillows so I could sit up. Then, to my shock, he didn't sit beside me.
He lay down, resting his head in my lap.
I froze. His heavy, dark head was resting on my thighs, his eyes closed, his face turned toward my stomach. It was an act of supreme vulnerability—or supreme arrogance.
"Read," he murmured. "Out loud."
My hands shook as I opened the book. I started to read, my voice raspy and uneven. But as the words flowed, I fell into the rhythm of the story. The room grew quiet, save for my voice and his steady breathing.
After a few pages, Roman spoke, his eyes still closed.
"I never had this," he whispered. The sound was so soft I almost missed it. "Silence. Peace. Someone reading to me."
I stopped reading, looking down at him. The harsh lines of his face had smoothed out. He looked younger. Human.
"My childhood was noise," he continued, his voice devoid of its usual command. "Screams. Gunshots. Cold. I slept with a knife under my pillow from the time I was six. I didn't know what it meant to be safe. I didn't know what it meant to be held without it hurting."
He shifted slightly, nuzzling closer to my warmth. "That's why I hold you so tight, Ashley. Because I'm terrified that if I let go, the cold will come back."
A sharp, unexpected pang hit my chest. It wasn't fear. It was... pity.
I looked at the monster resting in my lap, and for a terrifying second, I didn't see the captor. I saw the broken boy who had been molded by violence. I felt a sudden, heavy wave of guilt crash over me. He's hurting too. He's just... lost.
My hand lifted involuntarily, hovering over his hair. I wanted to comfort him. The urge was visceral, confusing, and overwhelming.
He saved my family, a treacherous voice whispered in my mind. He spared them.
Then, the image flashed in my mind.
My father's hands. Broken. Twisted. The blood soaking his shirt. The terror in my mother's eyes.
My hand froze in mid-air.
The guilt shattered like glass. No.
I snatched my hand back as if I'd been burned, my heart racing. He did that. He broke my father's fingers. He terrorized my family. He branded me.
The pity curdled into nausea. I looked down at him, and the boy vanished. The monster was back.
I gripped the book until my knuckles turned white, forcing myself to take a breath. I wouldn't fall for it. I wouldn't let his tragedy excuse his cruelty.
But as I looked at him, resting peacefully in my lap, I realized with a sick sinking feeling that the wall of my hatred had developed a crack. And I was terrified of what might slip through it next.
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Author's Note:
Wow. If you made it through that chapter, congratulations — you've officially unlocked the "Why am I attracted to this?" achievement 🏆😬✨.
Yes, Roman is a walking red flag bouquet.
Yes, Ashley deserves twelve snacks, three naps, and witness protection.
And yes, I'm aware the vibes oscillate between "kidnapper chic" and "spa day from hell." Balance, babes. ⚖️😌
Anyway, take a breather, stretch your spine, hydrate your inner drama gremlin 💀💦, and mentally prepare, because these two are only getting more feral from here.
See you in the next emotional car crash 🚗💥💕.
-Vaanni 🖤