Crawl

I didn’t move.

I didn’t even blink.

Just stared at him. At that bag. That ridiculous painted smile stretched across brown paper like a sick joke.

I didn’t want to crawl. I wasn’t an animal. I wasn’t a… I wasn’t one of them. I wasn’t supposed to be here.

But my knees twitched like they knew what was coming anyway. Like some old part of me—the scared, soft part that knew what fear looked like dressed in quiet smiles—was already preparing.

“I said,” he murmured, “crawl.”

I flinched.

The voice wasn’t raised. Not sharp. Just firm. Deliberate.

Like gravity.

“I-I…” I started, voice already wobbling, my breath catching in the back of my throat. “I c-can’t…”

A pause.

Then he tilted his head, just a little. The paper bag crinkled, and for some reason that tiny sound made my stomach twist.

“Were you ever punished as a child?” he asked.

I blinked. My chest tightened.

“I-I d-don’t… what?”

“Punished.” He said it casually. Like it was nothing more than asking about the weather. “Spanked? Belt? Knees in rice? Soap in the mouth?”

His head cocked again. “Rope?”

I swallowed hard. The memories flooded in fast and stupid, like they didn’t know how to knock first.

“I-I w-was,” I whispered. “A l-lot.”

“Mmm.” He nodded once, thoughtful. Then—still quiet, still kind—“Then you’ll understand what I mean when I say I’ll whip your knees raw if you don’t crawl to me right now.”

It didn’t sound like a threat.

He said it too gently. Like he was offering me tea.

My breath hitched. I felt the humiliation wrap around my throat like a second skin.

This wasn’t a request. And it wasn’t about being good or bad.

It was about power.

I lowered myself slowly, the marble floor cold and sharp beneath my knees. My palms stung as I braced myself, shoulders curling in. I felt like a goddamn dog. A shaking, stupid dog.

The room felt huge now. Every inch between us stretched like a mile.

He didn’t say anything. Just watched. Silent. Patient.

And I moved.

Each crawl felt like it scraped away at something inside me. Like he could see me being broken down by degrees, and he liked it.

Halfway across the floor, I heard his voice again.

“Are you Catholic, Luca?”

I nearly stumbled. My palms slid slightly on the floor, sweaty and trembling.

I didn’t know how to answer that.

My mouth opened. Then closed.

I felt like every word was stuck in my chest like thorns.

He didn’t interrupt. He waited.

Like he knew I’d get there eventually.

“I-I… I y-yes,” I finally managed, my voice a shaky whisper. “I-I… I am.”

There was a pause.

Then he moved. Just a little. His head tilted again, but this time, to the left.

I followed the motion with my eyes, too scared not to.

There was a low black table next to him. Sleek. Polished. On it, a collection of bottles—dark reds, deep ambers, crystal glasses catching the low light like blood.

And beside them—

I stopped breathing.

There it was.

My rosary.

Or a rosary.

Silver beads. Black crucifix. And right next to it—

A gun.

Sleek. Shining. Clean.

Nestled between the ashtray and the crystal like it belonged there. Like it was just another accessory.

I felt my spine go ice cold. My mouth opened again, but nothing came out.

“You’re wondering if I’ll put a bullet through your face,” he said.

His tone was so calm it made me nauseous.

I’d reached him by then. Right at his feet. Still on my knees. My hands were trembling. I could hear my own breath—short, sharp, fast.

“I…” My voice cracked. “W-Will y-you?”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

He didn’t move for a while.

Just leaned back a little in his seat, thighs spread, one arm draped along the back of the couch like he’d been born lounging. Like nothing in the world could touch him.

Except that bag.

That damn grocery bag still on his head, smiley face grinning at me like it knew what I was thinking. Like it could see through my skull.

I swallowed hard. My knees ached, and my palms were damp where they pressed to the floor.

“You have a beautiful rosary,” he said suddenly, voice thick like red wine, low and smooth. “It’s lovely in this light.”

I blinked. My gaze jerked back to the table beside him, to the beads, the crucifix, the gun.

The red light from the chandelier above caught the silver like a tongue of flame.

I felt sick again.

He tilted his head, watching me. That painted smile on the bag didn’t change, but I felt him watching.

“You’re thinking something,” he said, soft. “Aren’t you?”

I stiffened.

He waited. Always waiting.

“Speak, poor little puppy.”

My mouth was too dry. I licked my lips and tried again.

“H-H-How…” My voice cracked. “H-How d-do you h-have it?”

“The handlers preserved it,” he replied, like he’d been waiting for the question. “During your changing.”

“Ch-Ch-Changing?”

“They always keep a memento from the old life,” he said. “Something small. Meaningful. The final owner decides whether their new pet keeps it or tosses it into the fire.”

My chest tightened.

I opened my mouth, panicked, about to beg—Please, please let me keep it—

But before I could say a word, his fingers were on my face.

I froze.

His hand was cold. Not icy, just… cool. Smooth. And when his fingers brushed my cheek, I flinched instinctively.

The same spot.

The exact place I’d been hit earlier, back during the inspection.

“You were struck here,” he said. Not a question.

I nodded slowly, too scared to speak again.

His nail traced along the faint swell. Not hard, but enough to make me feel it. To feel seen.

“It displeases me,” he said softly. “To have such a beautiful mark shown to everyone else but me.”

I blinked.

My heart skipped.

“And it displeases me even more,” he continued, his voice sinking lower, silkier, “that someone else put their hand on you.”

I stared. I didn’t know where to look. His knees? The floor? The gun?

“Would it comfort you,” he asked, “if I had the man’s fingers chopped off and encased in liquid?”

I shook. Visibly. My breath shuddered out of me.

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He didn’t seem to mind.

His fingers slipped away from my cheek, trailing down the side of my jaw.

“You have a fragile heart,” he murmured. “That’s troublesome.”

Then, like it was some passing curiosity—“But interesting.”

I didn’t know what to do with my hands.

They just… hovered there. In the space between us. Half-curled fists, trembling like they didn’t belong to me. Like they knew something I didn’t.

He was still sitting. Still spread like a king on his throne.

His head tilted slowly, that bag’s stupid, smiling face staring at me like I was the joke of the night.

“Take it off,” he said.

I blinked.

My breath caught in my throat.

I didn’t move.

Not because I didn’t hear him. I did. But my body locked up. I wasn’t sure if it was a trick or a test or some trap that would clamp shut around me the second I obeyed.

But not obeying felt worse.

My hands—god, my hands—shook as I raised them.

I wasn’t even trying to hide it. What was the point? He could already smell the fear on me. Feel it rolling off me like heat.

I reached out.

My fingers brushed the paper.

The crinkle was too loud in the silence.

I tugged at the edge.

Slow.

I pulled up, trembling the whole way.

The first thing I saw was his jaw. Clean-cut. Sharp. Pale and smooth. Like he’d been carved by someone trying to show off.

Then his lips.

They weren’t smiling.

No, the smile was still painted on the bag. But his real mouth—it was straight. Unreadable. Slightly parted.

My breath caught again—only this time it wasn’t because of fear. Not exactly.

But then—

His fingers found my neck.

I froze.

They slipped under my chin, slow as oil.

Then they gripped.

Hard.

So hard.

Like he could snap my neck right there.

My mouth dropped open on a gasp, but no sound came out.

He leaned in. Close. His breath was warm, spilling right into my parted lips like it belonged there.

“You’re slow to commands,” he whispered, his voice no longer low—it was dark. Quietly furious.

“That displeases me, too.”