~ His Pathetic Little Prisoner ~

My hand trembled on the doorknob to Amiir's room. I'd been standing in the hallway for ten minutes, working up the courage, the kitchen knife heavy in my other hand.

I turned the knob slowly, grateful when it moved without sound. I slipped inside, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet.

The room was dark except for moonlight filtering through the curtains. I could make out the shape of him in the bed, a large form under the duvet, completely still. Sleeping peacefully.

My heart hammered so hard I was sure it would wake him. I forced myself to breathe slowly, quietly, as I crept across the room toward the bed.

This was insane. But what choice did I have? I was the crazy and delusional wife after all. So now he's going to see what real crazy looks like.

I reached the bedside, raising the knife with both hands. The blade caught a sliver of moonlight.

Do it. Just do it quickly. I brought the knife down hard.

The duvet gave way too easily. No resistance. No sound except fabric tearing.

I stabbed again. And again. And again. All the rage and grief and helplessness pouring into each thrust, imagining the blade finding flesh, ending this nightmare once and for all.

But there was no blood.

My arms were shaking from adrenaline as I finally stopped, breathing hard. Something was wrong. I grabbed the duvet and jerked it back.

Pillows. Neatly arranged pillows in a human shape.

The knife slipped from my fingers, clattering against the hardwood floor beside the bed.

No. No no no—

Slow clapping echoed from the corner of the room.

I spun around, squinting into the darkness. A figure sat in the armchair I hadn't noticed, legs crossed casually, applauding my performance like I'd just finished a show.

The lamp beside him clicked on.

Amiir sat there fully dressed, looking completely relaxed, a smile playing at his lips.

  "I was beginning to think you'd lost your nerve," he said, his voice carrying easily in the quiet room. "I've been expecting this since the first week of our marriage. What took you so long?"

My mouth opened but no sound came out. My mind raced, trying to find some explanation, some lie that would make this look like anything other than what it was.

  "I—I came to check on you, my husband." I stammered, the words sounding pathetic even to my own ears. "I thought I heard something and wanted to make sure you were okay."

He laughed like I'd told the funniest joke he'd heard all week.

  "Check on me," he repeated, standing slowly and starting toward me. "With a knife in the middle of the night. Tell me, Lara, does the word 'husband' feel as heavy and weird in your mouth as it sounds coming out? Because you're certainly not acting like a concerned wife right now."

I stepped back as he approached, my hip hitting the bedframe.

  "Sneaking into the room of a man you despise," he continued, his voice taking on that lecturing tone that made me feel like a stupid child, "a man you've made it abundantly clear you want nothing to do with, armed with a weapon sharp enough to do real damage if you'd actually hit your target—that's quite a story, don't you think?"

He stopped directly in front of me, close enough that I could smell his cologne.

  "The media would absolutely love it. I can see the headlines now: 'Blackwood Wife tried to kill him in his sleep.' Can you imagine what that would do to you?"

  "Please—" The word escaped before I could stop it.

   "Please what?" He tilted his head, studying me like I was a particularly interesting insect. "Please don't tell anyone? Please forgive you? Please let you go?"

He reached down, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, and bent to pick up the knife I'd dropped. He was careful to wrap the fabric around the handle before lifting it.

  "Preserving the fingerprints," he explained, holding it up to my eye level. "Evidence, in case I ever need to prove what my darling wife tried to do to me."

The knife turned slowly in his hand, catching the light.

  "You really thought this would kill me?" Amusement colored his voice. "This dull little thing that probably struggles to cut through a well-done steak, let alone bone and muscle? I'm almost disappointed in you, Lara. If you're going to attempt murder, at least have the decency to do proper research first. Use the right tools for the job."

Tears burned behind my eyes but I refused to let them fall. Refused to give him that satisfaction.

  "What do you want from me?" My voice came out hoarse, desperate. "You've already taken everything. What more could you possibly want?"

  "I've been very clear about what I want." He set the knife down on the nightstand, his movements deliberate. "Accept your role as my wife, give me an heir. We discussed this."

  "I will never—"

  "Never is a very long time," he interrupted smoothly. "And I'm a patient man. But you've been a very bad wife tonight, Lara. Breaking into my room. Attempting violence against your husband. That kind of behavior requires punishment, don't you think?"

  "What are you going to do?" The word came out as barely a whisper. 

  "Nothing tonight." He smiled, and somehow that was worse than if he'd threatened me outright. "Tonight, I'm going to let you go back to your room and think very carefully about what you've done.”

He moved past me toward the door, opening it in clear invitation for me to leave.

  "But understand something." His voice dropped lower, more dangerous. "From now on, I'll be watching you even more carefully. Every move you make, every plan you think you're forming in that clever little head of yours—I'll know about it."

  "I hate you," I said, the words breaking free from somewhere deep and wounded. "I hate you so much I can barely breathe when you're in the same room. This is all some sick game to you."

  "Hate me all you want." He gestured toward the open door. "It won't save you from what's coming."

I started toward the door, desperate to escape, but his voice stopped me at the threshold.

  "Oh, and Lara? One more thing."

I turned back, and the expression on his face made my blood run cold.

 Amiir pulled a phone from his pocket. He tapped the screen a few times, then held it up so I could see.

A recording app. Running. Time stamp: 2:47 AM. Duration: 8 minutes, 23 seconds.

  "You recorded me?" The words came out strangled. 

  "Every action," he confirmed, his smile widening. He pocketed the phone.

  "So if you ever decide to go public with your theories about what happened to Mommy and Daddy, I have everything I need to completely destroy what little credibility you have left. Could even make the jury believe you killed your own parents."

The room spun. I grabbed the doorframe to keep from falling.

  "You're a monster," I whispered.

  "I'm a businessman," he corrected. "I protect my interests. And right now, my interests include making sure you understand exactly how powerless you are in this situation.”

He moved back toward his bed, dismissing me.

He looked back at me one last time.

  "Now get out of my room before I change my mind about your punishment."

I ran.

Down the hallway, into my room, slamming the door behind me and locking it with shaking hands. I slid down to the floor, finally letting the tears come—hot, angry, desperate tears that did nothing to wash away the crushing weight of my situation.

He'd known. He'd been waiting for me. He'd turned my attack into evidence against me, to use as blackmail.

He was always three steps ahead, always in control, always winning. This was my life now. This was what I'd become.

A prisoner in a nightmare with no way out and a monster who enjoyed watching me suffer.