You don’t get ‘moments’ from me, Clara.

Clara's POV

**The Dark Turn**

Now, everything he did seemed designed only to remind me that escape would be futile. Guards outside my door, their silhouettes moving like clockwork behind frosted glass. His scent—amber and whiskey—everywhere, marking territory, marking me.

I sank lower in the water, letting it swallow my jaw, my eyes, until the world became nothing but muted light and the fast, wild drum of my own heartbeat.

But above all the memories, darker thoughts crept in. The night Lisa died—no, the night she was murdered. Taehyung’s voice cold, orders barked, blood staining his hands. The crack of his palm against my cheek, the way his eyes turned to stone when he realized grief was not enough, when only vengeance remained. Every word since then had been a threat. Every touch, a chain.

He wanted me to be afraid of him.

And the worst part—the undeniable, shameful truth—was that part of me still burned to be near him, hated and craved him in equal measure.

I sat up, scrubbing my arms raw until my skin throbbed. For a moment, my face in the fogged mirror looked like a corpse—pale, hollow, not quite dead.

I leaned closer, meeting my own wild, aching eyes.

“Never again,” I whispered to my reflection. My voice rung sharp and ugly across the tiles. “He’s taken all he’ll ever take.”

But the resolve rang hollow. I knew it. Haunted by the memory of his gentlest touches; shattered by the reality of his cruelty.

I dressed slowly, anxiety twisting my stomach as I knotted the sash of my robe and raked trembling fingers through my hair. The bathroom felt smaller, more suffocating. I felt watched—whether by his men or the ghosts of who we used to be, I couldn’t tell.

My footsteps echoed as I crossed to the door. I reached for the handle, then hesitated, pressing my palm to the wood.

On the other side, I could hear movement—slow, deliberate. The brushing of a suit jacket, the click of his shoes on hardwood. Taehyung was there—waiting for me, as he always did.

I breathed out once, twice, then opened the door.

Steam billowed around me, curling into the chilled, grand bedroom. I stepped out, the robe soft at my throat, my hair damp and curling around my cheeks. I kept my eyes low, but I felt him immediately—like a shadow at my back, a storm on the horizon.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, fingers intertwined—the posture of a man at war with patience. His gaze fixed on me, dark and unreadable, dangerous as a loaded gun.

“You were in there a long time,” he said, voice low, more threat than statement.

I fought to keep my tone steady. “I needed a moment. Alone.”

His lips twitched—something crueler than a smile. “You don’t get ‘moments’ from me, Clara. You get exactly what I give you.” His voice was velvet over glass—beautiful and cold, slicing all at once.

I tried to pass him, moving towards the wardrobe, but his hand shot out, grabbing my wrist with bruising force. The suddenness of it made my pulse jump, made the old terror flare up and sing down my spine.

His eyes, up close, were bottomless—dark and infinite. Whiskey and winter, the scent of the past and present, laced impossibly with danger.

“Look at me,” he ordered, voice a blade.

I did, because to refuse would be worse.

He stood in a single, fluid movement—suddenly taller than I remembered, suddenly everywhere, the air between us thick with his power. He pressed closer, his breath hot at my temple, his hand tightening on my wrist.

“Do you remember what I am, Clara?” he murmured, tone almost gentle, the words dripping poison. “You’re scared. I see it. Good. That means you haven’t forgotten.”

“I remember everything,” I whispered, meaning it as defiance, but the words came out soft, broken by the weight of what he’d done to me.

Something in his gaze flickered—a dangerous glint. “Do you? Then you remember this, too.” He dragged the pad of his thumb along the inside of my wrist, tracing circles where my blood beat desperately beneath skin. “I don’t lose what’s mine.”

His words sent a chill up my spine. I tried to pull away, but he didn’t let go. He pressed even closer, voice a dark caress, calculated and cruel.

“Did you think a bath could wash the past off you?” he purred. “Or did you need time to prepare yourself for another day in the cage?’ His hand slid to my jaw, thumb pressing up until I had no choice but to meet his eyes. “You could run water over your skin for a year, Clara, but you’d still belong to me. Body. Mind. Soul.”

Rage licked under my skin, hotter than the shame. “Maybe in another life, you claimed that. Now all you have is my shadow.” The words were reckless, but I was tired of fear.

He tensed, pupils darkening, but instead of striking or yelling, he smiled—lazy, cold, feral.

“That’s still enough for me,” he replied, voice soft as dusk. “Your shadow bends before me like you always did.”

He released my wrist, stepping back with the bored finality only someone who truly owned their prisoner could muster. My skin throbbed where he’d touched me, twin rivers of pain and adrenaline.

“Get dressed,” he said, already turning, reaching for his watch and jacket, adjusting the cuffs as if nothing had just happened. “We’re having breakfast. And don’t make me wait again.”

I watched as he strode to the door, pausing only long enough to meet my eyes—one last silent challenge, a promise of further cruelty to come.

Then he was gone, footsteps echoing down the corridor, his men falling in behind him.

I stood in the middle of the room, heart thundering in my chest. I pressed trembling hands to my cheeks—still warm, still branded by memory and misery both.

Left alone once more, in rooms Lisa once called home, I bowed my head. It was all I had left: the memory of winter’s first kiss, the ache of lost forever, and the shadow of a love that had become my cage.

Steam curled around me, soft as a lover’s sigh, and I realized: I would never escape him—not body, not heart, not memory—unless I broke the chains myself.

And somewhere, deep beneath the terror, part of me still longed to go back. Back to that first snowfall. Back to the arms of the boy Taehyung used to be.

But I knew, with a sickening certainty, that boy was gone forever.