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I hate that a small, twisted part of me iswaitingfor it.

Forthem.

Waiting to hear that door click open. Waiting to see who walks in. Waiting for the next touch, the next taunt, the next round of whatever-the-fuck-this-is. Like some pathetic little lamb, licking her wounds and hoping her wolves come back hungry.

A sick, shadowy part of me wants to know what happens next—not so I can escape, but because Ineedto know. What will they do? What will they say? Will it be Ruin whispering sins in my ear like scripture? Or Rule, rough and deliberate, dragging truths out of me I don’t even want to admit to myself?

What does that say about me?

No. I already know what it says. It says maybe I’m just as fucked-up as they are. That maybe all the rage and fire I’ve used to keep the world at bay… wasn’t armor. Maybe it was bait. And now that I’ve lost every ounce of control, every scrap of power, I’mcracking. Not broken. Not yet. But the fractures are spiderwebbing under the surface, and I can feel every single one with every breath I take.

I glance at the door again. I don’t mean to. It’s a reflex now. A nervous tic. I’ve started watching it the way animals watch the sky before a storm.

Because I know what comes when it opens.

Everythingshifts.

The air thickens. My blood kicks up. My body betrays me in the worst, most humiliating ways—every single goddamn time.

I’ve been edged, fed, restrained, and taunted like some pampered pet who can’t decide if she wants to bite or beg. And now I’m alone in this silence, hyper-aware of every place my skin aches. Every throb of need they left me with. Every heartbeat that ticks by without answers or freedom or even the dignity of choice.

I yank the chains again. Harder. Not to escape. Just tofeelthe resistance. To remind myself I’m still in this body. Still pissed. Still dangerous.

The sound is sharp. Final. The chains don’t budge.

“Fucking bastards,” I mutter to no one. To everyone. To the hidden cameras Iknoware here. Behind the walls. In the vents. Maybe in the goddamn headboard. Who knows with these psychos?

It’s another hour—maybe more—before the door creaks open again.

I don’t flinch. Don’t bother to look up right away. I’m too busy pretending not to give a shit. Too busy trying not to count the thrum of my pulse or the way my thighs instinctively tense in anticipation. But then I catch the scent.

Grilled cheese.

And not just any grilled cheese.Mygrilled cheese. Cheap white bread, slathered in butter, crisped to golden perfection. Gooey, melty cheddar and mozzarella—exactly the way I’ve made it a thousand times when the world was too heavy and I needed something warm and comforting.

I tense.

My head snaps toward the door like I’m possessed.

One of them steps inside—tactical gear, black mask, gloved hands. Unreadable lenses hiding eyes I swear see straight through me. It could be either of them.

But I know.

Onlyoneof them seems to have made feeding me into a personal kink.

“Rule,” I say flatly, voice like rust scraping over gravel. I narrow my eyes, not bothering to hide the suspicion burning behind them. “You’re really committed to the domestic captor aesthetic, huh?”

He doesn’t confirm it. Just steps inside with that same calm, commanding presence and sets the tray down on the bedside table like we’re about to have a fucking picnic in hell.

But what’s on that tray? That’s not just food. That’s a calculated weapon. A direct assault on whatever scraps of resistance I’ve got left.

Grilled. Fucking. Cheese.

The one thing that always hits right when everything else is falling apart. The kind of food you don’t just eat—you cling to. A warm, gooey reminder that something can still be simple. Still be good.

Hot. Perfect. Crisped golden on both sides. The smell alone is enough to wreck me—real butter, melting cheese, toasted white bread, just the way I’ve always made it. My mouth waters before I can stop it.

I snap.