The room smelled like cigarettes and sweat, the mattress beneath her familiar—too familiar.
The room was too hot.
The ceiling too low.
She couldn't move.
Everything felt thick—her blood, the air, her limbs.
She knew this bed.
The warped frame.
The scratchy blanket.
The smell of mildew and pine cleaner mixed with sweat and something sour.
Home.
No.
Not anymore.
She tried to open her eyes, but they fluttered like paper in wind.
Darkness swam behind them.
She heard her own breath—shallow and too slow. Like she was underwater.
Then came the footsteps.
One at a time. Slow. Familiar.
The old floorboard by the hallway closet creaked.
Then the hinge on her door groaned.
Then silence.
Thick, waiting silence.
Her mouth wouldn't open. Her tongue felt like cotton.
She couldn't scream.
The door clicked shut again.
Then she heard the sigh.
His sigh.
It made her heart stutter.
The sound of him toeing off his boots. The rustle of his belt. The soft pop of a beer tab opening. The slow slurp of a sip.
Then the raspy lust-filled whisper.
"Eighteen."
The word slid across her skin like oil.
The mattress dipped. Her body tilted. She tried to roll away, but her muscles refused.
A heavy hand landed gently on her hip.
Just resting.
Then another on her stomach, over her shirt.
Still. Paused. Like he was savoring the moment.
She wanted to scream.
To bite.
To disappear.
The hand moved. Fingers dragging across her abdomen, thumb tracing circles just under her ribs.
"You always did sleep like a baby," he whispered.
Her heart was thunder in her chest. Her skin burned everywhere he touched—even places he hadn't reached yet.
She couldn't move.
Couldn't twitch.
Couldn't even blink.
The blanket lifted. Her sleep shorts shifted slightly. A calloused hand pressed to her thigh—outside the fabric.
Still not violating.
Still teasing.
Still Rick.
She felt his face near hers. The damp heat of his breath. The click of his tongue against his teeth as he muttered:
"You smell like a woman now."
His hand ghosted back up. Over her ribs.
Under the hem of her shirt.
One finger.
Then another.
Tracing along her side. Slow. Barely touching. Barely enough to feel—but enough to know.
Then…
He slid his palm over her chest.
Soft.
Heavy.
Too warm.
His thumb grazed her nipple—still covered. Still technically untouched.
But everything inside her screamed violation.
"You're mine now," he said softly. "I waited."
His hands moved over her like a map. Her pjs peeled away in pieces, slow and teasing, and when he looked at her—naked, trembling, exposed—there was cruelty in his eyes.
"You are…" he exhaled, as if the rest of the sentence had been stolen by my skin. "I have waited… so long for this."
His mouth descended on her collarbone, biting and licking every inch. He kissed down her chest, his tongue circling the swell of one breast, then the other. When his mouth finally closed around her nipple, she arched trying to get away. She couldn't move under the weight of him.
Another hand slipped under her back. He pulled her closer, her limp body folding like paper. She was pressed to his chest now—his breath thick with whiskey and rot.
"I'm gonna show you how it's supposed to feel," he said, as if it were a kindness.
His hands explored every inch of her with gross intensity. Over her ribs, her hips, the inside of her thigh—until she was shaking beneath him.
The pressure of his knee slid between her thighs.
She moaned—not from pleasure, but panic.
A strangled, muffled noise.
That was all she could manage
Then—
His fingers found her.
She gasped, hips bucking as he slid two fingers along her slick folds, parting her. Testing her.
Her body betrayed her.
"You're drenched," he sneered.
One finger slid inside, forcefully—curling just enough to make her cry out.
Then another.
His thumb pressed to her clit, small rough circles that had her legs trembling,
Then the belt buckle clinked.
His weight shifted.
"I plan to savor this" he rasped. "Tonight, you'll please me until I am thoroughly satisfied."
She tried to move, but her body wouldn't listen.
Her mind was slow, drugged, floating between panic and paralysis.
Something short, thick and warm brushed against her thigh.
She gasped, or tried to—but her mouth didn't open.
She was underwater. Sinking.
A voice near her ear, raspy, wet with desire:
"Eighteen. You're mine now."
The words came with breath against her neck, with heat pressing her down.
She whimpered, trying to twist away, but her limbs were heavy. Trapped.
She screamed inside.
Don't let it happen. Don't let it happen.
The pressure between her thighs—
And then—
She woke.
Bolt upright. Gasping. Drenched in sweat.
It was dark. Silent.
She wasn't in that room.
She was in Vasilios's estate. Her velvet prison.
The silk sheets beneath her were cool. Her shirt was still on. The door still locked—from the outside.
Just a dream.
But her body didn't know that. Her skin still crawled. Her heart still pounded.
She curled her knees to her chest and rocked gently, whispering to herself:
"You're not there. You're not there. You're not there."
But part of her was.
Still trapped.
Still marked.
Still his.
She was fourteen when she first noticed Rick's gaze shift.
It wasn't like before—when his eyes were filled with annoyance or alcohol or the sharp cruelty of disappointment.
This was different.
This was linger.
This was measure.
This was the kind of look that made her skin crawl and her stomach twist before she even understood why.
At first, it was subtle
A hug that lasted a second too long.
A pat on the back that slid a little too low.
A glance at her chest that he didn't bother to hide.
She tried to brush it off.
Tried to pretend she was imagining it.
But deep down, she knew:
The rules were changing.
At fifteen, the punishments shifted too.
He still yelled, still drank, still threw things.
But now he spanked her.
Always over her clothes.
Always in private.
Always just enough to sting.
But never enough to bruise.
Never enough for someone to notice.
He was careful.
He'd say things like:
"You think I like doing this?"
"You need to learn respect."
"You'll understand when you're older."
She started avoiding him.
Stayed at school late.
Took every after-class tutoring job she could.
Walked home the long way, praying someone—anyone—would ask her if she was okay.
No one did.
At sixteen, her mother disappeared.
Gone.
Vanished like a whisper in the night.
After a fight so loud it cracked glass.
No note.
No goodbye.
No body.
Just silence.
And Rick.
He didn't file a report.
Didn't call the police.
"Your mother left us," he said with that same flat smile.
"She was weak. But we're strong, aren't we? You're the woman of the house now."
That's when the door started locking.
From the outside.
He told her to cook.
To "keep house."
To sit beside him on the couch.
"You look grown," he said.
"A man needs a woman who doesn't leave."
"You're mine. You know that, right?"
He touched her hair.
Her face.
Her shoulders.
Kisses on the forehead that lingered.
Hands that hovered.
Whispers that slithered into her bones:
"You'll always be mine."
She started sleeping with a knife under her pillow.
She stopped being a girl.
Started becoming a ghost.
She had a plan.
She would leave before eighteen.
Before he claimed what he believed was already his.
But he beat her to it.
One night.
One poker game.
He didn't need to violate her body.
He sold it.
Wagered her virginity, her freedom—her life.
She wasn't a daughter.
She wasn't a person.
She was currency.
And now, inside her velvet cage, Maryna stared at the candlelight flickering across her ceiling and whispered:
"You'll always be mine."
But not anymore.
Not anymore.