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“Shy Girl, come here,”

Master Nathan calls, his voice slicing through the thick quiet of the house. It echoes easily from the kitchen to the living room, where I’m sprawled on my pallet, tracing shadows on the ceiling until their edges blur and fade. His tone is casual, but it hooks into me, pulling me upright without hesitation.

I crawl toward him, knees brushing the rug, each movement automatic now. He’s at the counter, stirring something in a pot, the scent curling through the air—warm, savory, the kind of smell that awakens a low, desperate hunger. My stomach tightens reflexively, clenching around the promise of food I know he won’t share.

“I’m having some company over tonight,”

he says, his voice light, like he’s telling me we’re expecting rain. “I’m going to need to handcuff and gag you, so hurry up and eat your dinner.”

The bowl lands with a dull thud in front of me, its contents glistening in the dim light—a single piece of chicken breast, shriveled and overcooked. I stare at it for a moment too long before lowering my head.

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Company. The word feels foreign here, a sharp contrast to the near silence that’s ruled this house for almost four years. My mind stumbles over it, twisting it into shapes I don’t want to name. Someone else. A replacement. Someone better, someone newer.

The spiral starts, clawing its way through me. What if tonight is my last night in the Pink Room? What if he’s done with me, tired

of the version of me that’s become too fragile, too worn? My chest tightens, and the panic rises fast, pressing against my ribs, but I swallow it down. I force my face into blank obedience. Don’t let him see it. Don’t let him know.

“Woof,”

I murmur, barely audible, and lower myself to the bowl.

The chicken is tough, dry against my teeth, but it’s warm, and it’s not the metallic mush of dog food. That’s enough. I chew quickly, mechanically, swallowing it down without letting myself think. Protein keeps me standing. The scraps of human food he gives me are rare, erratic, but they’ve kept me from slipping too far, from crumbling completely. My ribs still press against my skin, a sharp reminder of what I’ve lost, but I’m satiated. For now.

I glance up as I eat, watching him. His movements are hurried like his guest might arrive any minute, wiping the counter in big, circular motions, his focus somewhere far from this room. The questions press at my lips, begging to be spoken—Who’s coming? What do they mean to you? What will happen to me?—but they stay locked behind my teeth.

The last time I asked a question, it cost me three days of bruises and silence. That was three years ago. I asked what happened to Cupcake.

When I finish, he turns to me, nodding once, a gesture so slight it feels like an afterthought. “Follow,”

he says, his voice clipped, and I crawl after him, my knees scraping against the hardwood, the air between us taut with unspoken weight.

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The Pink Room smells of cleaning spray, the kind he uses when he’s too drunk or too tired to wash me. The sweetness clings to the air, sharp and artificial, failing to mask the deeper rot underneath. He gestures to the bed, and I climb up without hesitation, spreading my legs before I can stop myself, my body moving faster than my mind.

He chuckles softly, a sound that’s almost kind, almost cruel. “Not that, Shy Girl,”

he says, his voice coaxing as he presses my legs closed, his touch light but firm. “Not right now.”

The handcuffs are next, their metal glinting faintly. They bite cold against my wrists as he snaps them on, securing them to the headboard with a decisive click. The ball gag follows. “Open,”

he says, and I obey, my jaw trembling as the rubber slides in, its chemical taste bitter and invasive, spreading like rust across my tongue.

“Shh,”

he murmurs, brushing his hand against my cheek in a gesture that pretends tenderness but reeks of control. He lingers there, his eyes heavy on mine, his expression unreadable, before flicking off the light. The room plunges into darkness, the door clicking shut behind him, the deadbolt sliding into place like a blade drawn clean.

I lie still; my breaths shallow, uneven through my nose. The gag forces me into small, measured inhales, each one tightening the ache in my chest. The cuffs dig into my wrists, the edges biting into my skin with each slight movement. My body feels like a cage within a cage, trapped in itself, every sensation amplified—the sting, the pull, the exhaustion crawling up my spine.

Who is it? What does this mean for me?

The questions churn, circling like vultures. The silence presses against me, thick and suffocating, broken only by the faint murmur of his voice on the phone, muffled and indistinct. I strain to hear

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more, to find an answer in the fragments of sound, but nothing comes.

I focus on the slow rhythm of my breath. In. Out. In. Out. It’s the only thing I have, the only thing I can control. The questions don’t stop, though. They chip away at me, each one sharper than the last, each one carving away another piece. Time folds in on itself, stretching and collapsing, and the room shrinks, the silence heavy and unyielding.

I lie there, trapped in the waiting, in the dark, in the endless, suffocating ache of not knowing.

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About an hour later, I hear it: the front door opening and the sound of a woman’s laughter, light and melodic, slicing through the quiet of the house like a razor. My chest tightens, and my ears strain, every muscle in my body tensed, waiting. Her heels click sharply against the floor, a crisp rhythm that makes my stomach turn.

Their voices drift faintly through the walls, indistinct but alive. Hers is warm, bright with amusement, while his is steady, deeper. Laughter spills between them, hers more frequent, like he’s coaxing something out of her.

The questions come fast, cutting through me like splinters. Has he told her yet? Does she know what he likes? Has he shown her the cage?

I see it in my head before I can stop it—Nathan leading her down the hall, his hand on the small of her back, the door to the study opening. Her face when she sees it, the way her expression would shift, the dawning horror. His grin, sharp and cruel, as he waits for her to understand.

I try to shut it out, to focus, to hear them more clearly, but their voices stay muffled, their laughter distant and veiled by the walls.

Time stretches thin, and I lie there, the cuffs biting into my wrists, the gag heavy in my mouth, my jaw aching with the weight of it. My body aches, stiff and sore from the stillness, but I don’t move. I just listen, clinging to the rhythm of their voices, trying to brace myself for what’s coming.

Finally, their footsteps echo down the hallway, uneven and stumbling, her heels tapping out a disjointed melody. My heart pounds harder, each beat a sharp thud against my ribs. This is it.

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But they don’t stop at the study. They stop in front of Nathan’s bedroom. The laughter fades, softens, mutates into something else—low murmurs, breathy sighs. Then the bed creaks.

The sounds that follow are unmistakable. Rhythmic. Loud. Her moans pierce the quiet, sharp and relentless, like a knife scraping against bone. The bed creaks in time, a jarring metronome I can’t escape.

I close my eyes tight, pressing them shut as if I could block it out, but the noises burrow in, filling every corner of the room. I flinch with every sound, every gasp, every guttural groan, my body recoiling even as I stay still.

It goes on forever, the minutes stretching into something unbearable. When it finally stops, the silence is sudden, ringing in my ears. Her heels click again, harder now, faster, and then the front door slams shut.

She’s gone.

Nathan’s footsteps follow, slower, heavier, his weight dragging against the house. He fiddles with the locks, and the door to the Pink Room swings open. Light floods the space, harsh and intrusive, making me squint.

“Stuck-up bitch,”

he mutters, his words slurred, thick with whiskey. For a moment, I think he’s talking to me, and my body tenses, bracing for his hand, but then I realize it’s about her.

“I can’t keep her,”

he says, frustration seeping through his words. “She’s not the right girl.”

I feel something shift inside me—confusion, maybe, or a flicker of relief, faint and bitter.

Nathan stumbles toward the bed and sits heavily beside me, his weight making the frame groan. He reaches out, his hand finding my head, his fingers threading clumsily through my hair. His touch is strange, sloppy, pretending tenderness but loaded with possession.

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“She’s not obedient like you, Shy Girl,”

he says, his voice softening, almost warm. “I can’t find anyone like you.”

The words settle over me, thick and suffocating, pressing into my skin like a brand. You mean someone desperate enough. Someone who gave up trying to fight.

Nathan sighs, a long, heavy exhale, his breath warm against my cheek as he leans back. His head hits the pillow, and his hand stays tangled in my hair. Within minutes, his breathing evens out, slow and rhythmic, his snores filling the silence.

I stare at the ceiling, my wrists aching from the cuffs, my jaw tight against the gag. His body sprawls across the bed, his man-sized frame claiming most of it, leaving me perched on the edge like an afterthought. My limbs are stiff, my back screaming in protest, but I don’t move.

The hours stretch, the silence heavy except for the sound of his breathing, and my thoughts spiral in tight, endless loops. Who was she? What does this mean for me?

I count his breaths—one, two, three, four—until the rhythm steadies me, pulling me away from the noise in my head. I lie there, trapped in his shadow, waiting for the morning to come, waiting for anything to change. But I know it won’t. Nothing ever does.

YEAR FIVE