Prologue

David’s fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, his jaw carved into a rigid line. The room buzzed with quiet rage—the kind that simmers beneath skin, not loud but lethal.

He was furious.

At her.

At himself.

Mostly himself.

He’d promised he wouldn’t hurt her again. Whispered it into her skin like a vow. Sworn it to the darkness when she lay curled against him, breath steady, trust still intact. But words were cheap. And weakness always came disguised as control.

Now here they were. Again.

She lay motionless on the bed, her frame curled in on itself like something forgotten. Her wrist still shackled to the headboard, the metal cuff biting into bruised flesh. Her other hand rested over her heart, as if trying to keep it from falling apart. Dried tears crusted along the slope of her cheek. Her lips were slightly parted, but no breath passed through them without hesitation.

She was asleep.

Or pretending to be.

Sometimes, even she couldn’t tell the difference.

He stared at her. Too long. Long enough to feel that ache stir in his chest again—the familiar cocktail of guilt, shame, love twisted into obsession. But it never stopped him. It never would.

He always told himself the same lie: If she’d stop fighting, stop running, stop making him choose between pain and peace—things would be different. Better. Gentler.

But she never did. And so… neither did he.

He turned on the bath. The gurgle of water filled the space like a hymn. He tested the temperature with his fingers. Hot, but not scalding. Then added a few drops of lavender oil. Something to soothe. As if scent could erase sin.

The bath filled slowly. Quiet. Merciful.

When he returned to the bedroom, his footsteps were light—too light for a man his size.

Brielle heard him.

Her spine stiffened beneath the blanket, her shoulders folding tighter. Her eyes squeezed shut. Her breathing changed, shallow and strained. Like a child playing dead beneath the weight of something too cruel to name.

He paused.

And watched her.

She didn’t flinch when he reached for the key around his neck. Didn’t beg, didn’t plead. Those days were gone. Replaced by resignation.

With a small, metallic click, the cuff unlocked. Her arm fell limply to the mattress, fingers curling into her chest like she was trying to shield something—what little she had left.

Still, she didn’t move.

He rubbed her wrist, warming the cold skin. Kissed it, lips gentle against broken flesh.

“Relax,” he whispered, as if the word still belonged to him.

Then he picked her up—carefully. Always carefully. His arms under her knees and back, cradling her against his chest like she was precious. Like he hadn’t shattered her with those same hands.

He carried her into the bathroom, the steam wrapping around them in curls.

“I added oils,” he murmured. “They’ll help with the pain.”

He lowered her into the tub, slow and reverent. The water rose around her like a cradle. It should have felt safe.

It didn’t.

Her lips parted. Words trembled there, hesitant and frayed. She knew what he wanted. What he waited for. What he needed to believe he wasn’t a monster.

“…Thank you,” she whispered.

Not from gratitude.

From survival.

He smiled like it meant something. As if her submission could still pass for affection. He kissed her damp forehead. “Get some rest,” he said. “I’ll bring lunch soon.”

Then he left.

The door shut behind him with the softest click. But it echoed like a gunshot.

And then—her mask broke.

The breath she’d been holding ripped from her chest, swallowed by a fist. Her body folded forward, her arms clutching herself as the sobs came—silent, wet, violent. The kind of crying that couldn’t be heard, only felt. Like something dying inside her.

The bathwater trembled with her shaking.

Still, she didn’t move.

Because there was nowhere to go.

This was her world now—bolted doors, locked windows, whispered apologies that bled into commands. She had prayed. Sometimes she still did. But Heaven didn’t answer.

Only David did.

Only his boots on the floor.

His hand on her skin.

His voice in her ear—soft, sweet, lethal.

Eventually, her breathing slowed.

She reached for the drain.

Watched the water swirl—lavender-scented, streaked with balm and bruise.

Then turned on the shower.

The spray beat down hard. She welcomed the sting. Scrubbed her skin until it flushed. Bit her tongue every time her hand brushed a new welt. Shampooed her hair like it might erase him. Combed it out with shaking fingers.

When she stepped out, the mirror was fogged.

Good.

She didn’t want to see her face.

She toweled off in silence, then wrapped herself in it like armor. The air was thick. Heavy with the ghost of his breath, the shadow of his mouth.

Back in the bedroom, it was empty. Quiet.

Safe.

For now.

She padded to the dresser, pulled out a loose t-shirt and sweatpants—soft, well-worn. Clothes that smelled like fabric softener and not him. She slipped them on quickly.

She padded to the door.

Pressed her palm to the knob.

Twisted.

It didn’t move.

Of course it didn’t.

Her body sagged under the weight of knowing.

She crossed back to the bed, crawled under the covers, and curled up against the farthest edge—where his scent was weakest.

And this time, when sleep pulled her under, it wasn’t rest.

It was retreat.

Because the ache in her muscles was nothing—nothing—compared to the quiet scream buried deep inside her soul.

Several hours had passed before David returned.

It had been nearly a month since he’d taken Brielle—since he’d erased her from the map and rewritten her world in the shape of his obsession. In that time, she’d written exactly two letters. Both under watchful eyes. Both drenched in lies.

One to her best friend, Talia:

I just need some time to think. Please don’t worry.

And one to her mother:

I’m safe. I love you. I’ll call when I can.

Each word carefully chosen, monitored, rehearsed. Each one a mask. A silencer. A chain.

At school, Talia had been watching him—burning him alive with her stare across their shared English class. But David never cracked. He had perfected the art of poise, of calculated disinterest. While inside, he was fuming. Talia was smart. Suspicious. A threat. And he didn’t tolerate threats.

Now, climbing the staircase of his estate—marble floors cold beneath his boots, walls echoing the silence of wealth and rot—David moved like a man with purpose. When he reached the third floor, he paused at the final door in the east wing. The only one that mattered. The door that held his girl.

His prize. His penance. His cage-bound salvation.

He unlocked it slowly. Deliberately. As if the weight of what waited inside needed reverence.

Click.

He stepped in.

Brielle lay asleep on her stomach, limbs limp, breath slow and shallow. One arm was still chained loosely to the headboard—a precaution he claimed was “just until she stopped trying to leave.” Her skin bore the faintest bruises now: wrists, hips, the soft swell of her ribs. He told himself it was love. He told himself she needed this.

And God help him, some part of him believed it.

He set the takeout bag on the nearby table and sat beside her. For a moment, he just watched. Watched the way her hair fanned across the pillow. Watched the curve of her spine beneath the thin cotton shirt. Watched her breathe.

She stirred.

Then her eyes opened—and the moment shattered.

She recoiled so fast she nearly fell off the bed, her entire body jerking away from his touch like he’d burned her.

David’s jaw locked. “I brought you lunch,” he said, voice clipped, careful.

Brielle didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Her heart thudded visibly against her chest as she stared at him, every muscle wired to flee. But then, like a switch had flipped, something in her changed. She blinked once. Then again. And slowly, mechanically, like a puppet re-strung, she crawled toward him.

Into his lap.

Her body folded against his, obedient. Her eyes remained blank.

Gone.

He spooned yogurt into her mouth. She ate. Another bite. She swallowed.

Only when he’d fed her three spoonfuls did he hand her the rest of her sandwich, watching her hands tremble as she held it. He tracked every flicker of her breath. Every tiny betrayal her body gave away.

He cupped her face gently, thumb stroking her cheek.

She flinched.

That flinch hit him harder than a punch.

Still, he swallowed it. Buried the rage. Pressed a kiss to her temple like it meant something.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured.

She didn’t answer. Just kept her eyes down, tangled her fingers in her shirt hem. Waiting.

“...Thank you,” she whispered finally. The words tasted like blood.

David rose and lay on the bed behind her, patting the spot beside him. A command dressed as comfort.

She moved.

She always moved.

She lay beside him like a girl placing herself on an altar. Fragile. Hollowed out. His arm curled around her, his hand brushing up her bare arm.

Her skin erupted in goosebumps—not from lust, but from the cold breath of fear.

He leaned in, lips grazing her neck, whispering into her ear like a secret. “I missed you today.”

Her body shook.

He pulled her closer, until her back was pressed against his chest.

“Shhh,” he murmured. “It’s alright, Brielle.”

She tried not to sob. Tried to breathe quietly, carefully. But when he turned her face toward his and kissed her cheeks, the tears betrayed her.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he said, wiping her tears with his thumb. “I didn’t mean to. I hate it when you make me like that.”

The manipulation was like honey and poison mixed.

“You have to promise me. No more escape attempts. No more testing me. Please, baby.”

She hesitated. That was all it took.

His hands tightened around her arms. Not enough to leave new bruises—but enough to remind her of the ones that were still healing.

“Promise me,” he hissed, shaking her lightly. “Now.”

She whimpered. “Please… please stop hurting me. I promise.”

It wasn’t a vow. It was a surrender.

The moment he heard it, he released her. Brushed her hair back. Kissed her forehead like she was something sacred instead of something stolen.

He laid her back down, hand slipping beneath her shirt to stroke her ribs. Her bruises. Her bones.

She winced.

“Please don’t,” she whispered. “I’m still sore…”

His hand froze. His entire body stilled.

For a moment, it looked like he might erupt. Instead, he stepped away.

When he returned, he had water. Two white pills.

“Take these,” he said softly.

She hesitated.

Then she took them.

Because saying no had become far more dangerous than swallowing whatever came next.

David sat motionless in the velvet armchair, bathed in shadows carved by the early dusk filtering through the blackout curtains. The only light in the room came from the dim lamp behind him—casting a golden halo across his shoulders, a cruel illusion of sanctity.

But there was nothing holy about him.

Not when he was watching her like that.

Brielle lay curled beneath the ivory sheets, the delicate rise and fall of her breath the only proof she was still alive. Her form was so small. So quiet. A wounded animal in a cage made of silk and lies.

And David?

He didn’t blink.

He just stared.

The girl in his bed had become his religion. His ruin. The axis on which his entire fucking world spun.

He’d loved before—at least, that’s what he’d called it back then. Lust and power dressed up in softer words. But those other girls? They were echoes. Shadows. None of them reached down and gripped his soul the way Brielle had. None of them made him feel like her absence would split him open at the seams.

And yet… she feared him.

That was the paradox he couldn’t swallow. The sickness in his blood. Because it should have hurt him—should’ve cracked something open in his chest to see her flinch from his touch.

But it didn’t.

It made him want.

Because fear meant she understood.

Fear meant she belonged to him.

His gaze dropped to the faint shimmer of dried tears on her cheeks, the crusted lines of pain she hadn’t even had the strength to wipe away. He remembered the sobs, too—how they echoed through the walls like hymns in a cathedral built for suffering. She hadn’t meant to make him angry. She never did. But she always did anyway.

Just like the others.

Delilah had been first—sophomore year. Sweet. Gullible. All sunshine and lip gloss. He remembered the way she laughed at another guy’s joke in the hallway. Laughed. Like he didn’t exist. Rage overtook him before thought ever had a chance. He struck her that afternoon, open-palmed and open-eyed. And when she cried, it didn’t move him. It centered him.

She stayed. Until her parents whisked her away in the middle of the night. A different state. A clean slate. But not before she left a note behind, one he found weeks later in his locker:

“You scare me. Please get help.”

He burned it.

Then Seraphina. Broken little bird with tear-glass eyes. She came to him already splintered, already desperate to be wanted. He wrapped his hands around her neck when she talked too much, left bite marks when she asked too many questions. And she called it love. She called it passion. When he left her, she shattered completely. Tried to die in a school bathroom stall. Slit wrists. A pool of blood and a confession note addressed to him.

He felt… nothing.

Faith was fire. Pure carnage in heels. She fought back—bit back. Their relationship was a cage match dressed up in romance. He liked the way she bled. She liked the way he bruised. But even wildfire burns out when there's no fuel left. Eventually, they collapsed under their own wreckage.

And Cel?ia

Celia was nothing. A placeholder with a platinum card and daddy issues. He used her. Knocked her from her pedestal just to see how far she'd fall. When she finally left, broken and bitter, he didn’t stop her.

By then, he was tired. Hollow. Numb.

Until Brielle.

Until her.

He spotted her freshman year—headphones in, always scribbling in that leather journal like the world couldn’t touch her. She didn’t notice him at first. But he noticed everything about her. The way she bit her lower lip when reading. The way she hugged her books to her chest like armor. The way she avoided eye contact like it might burn.

She was different.

Not because she was pure—but because she didn’t know what he was capable of.

Not yet.

He played it slow. Controlled. Friendly smiles. Casual compliments. The perfect predator in collegiate clothing. And when she finally said yes to that coffee? His fate was sealed.

He needed her.

Now, here she was—tangled in his sheets, drugged into quiet, drowning in fear—and his.

Forever.

His throat tightened as she stirred.

She rolled onto her back, hair clinging to her damp cheek, a slight wince crossing her face like waking itself hurt. Her fingers brushed her temple, her breath catching as she blinked into the dimness.

Then her eyes landed on him.

The fear arrived instantly—sharp and honest. No mask. No pretense. Just raw, primal dread.

David leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the leather of his gloves creaking slightly. “Are you alright, Brielle?”

Her voice was a whisper, nothing more than air. “My head… hurts.”

She curled back toward the pillow as if she could sink into it. Vanish. Dissolve.

But he wasn’t done.

He stood slowly, crossing the space between them with calculated steps, and perched himself on the edge of the bed. One hand reached out—gently, carefully—tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She flinched, but didn’t pull away.

His touch lingered.

“You were crying in your sleep,” he said quietly. “Why?”

Brielle’s lips parted, then closed. Her eyes darted to the far wall, searching for an exit that didn’t exist.

“I don’t know,” she lied.

David smiled. A tight, haunted thing. “You do. But that’s okay. You’ll tell me eventually. We have all the time in the world.”

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t resist.

Because resistance was useless.

And he knew it.