Present time
AVA
My wrists stung.
The metal bit into torn skin, stretched above my head and anchored to a wall that smelled like old stone and iron. My arms ached. My thighs trembled from overuse. I didn't know how long I had been there—minutes, hours, or days. All I knew was that I was still warm with him, slick and bruised and thoroughly ruined, and I didn't know whether to scream or beg to forget.
I closed my eyes and they came for me.
My father's voice, cold and firm. "If you accept it, don't come back."
My mother, less harsh but twice as lethal. "We gave you everything. This is how you repay us?"
Their shadows folded into the dream, looming over me like twisted angels. And me—desperate, clutching the letter with shaking fingers and more hope than sense—standing there, begging them to understand.
I jolted awake, screaming.
"I'm sorry!" The words tore out of me before I could stop them, the apology raw and ugly in the still air. I gasped, chest heaving, and looked around the unfamiliar room.
It was dark, warm, and quiet, like a mausoleum dressed in luxury. Velvet curtains spilled across tall windows, furniture made of dark mahogany and cold elegance. I was alone, but the sense of being watched was etched into the walls.
I curled in on myself.
I had been a fool.
I should have listened. Should've stayed where it was safe, where expectations were walls but at least they didn't bite. Instead, I followed ambition straight into a monster's hands.
I wasn't just a prisoner. I was property now.
I stood slowly. The pain between my thighs was a sharp reminder of what I'd allowed. I didn't cry. I wouldn't give myself that. Not yet. I looked around for anything that wasn't torn or ruined.
The closet was filled with his idea of what I should wear—tight silk, no underwear, soft lace that felt more like a collar than comfort. I pushed through it, searching for something, anything, that didn't make me feel like a toy.
I found an oversized shirt near the back. It smelled like him. I put it on anyway.
Barefoot, I padded through the hallways.
The house stretched endlessly, carved from stone and shadows. Every step echoed. I didn't know what I was looking for. Maybe a knife. Maybe an open window. Maybe just a place where the silence didn't press so hard against my skin.
The door creaked as I opened it, revealing rows upon rows of aged bottles.
I found the wine cellar by accident.
It was cold down there, the air thick with the scent of grapes and dust and old money. I took the first bottle I saw and uncorked it with clumsy fingers.
It was rich, velvety, and far too good to waste on someone like me.
I drank it straight from the bottle.
Then another.
The third had me sitting on the stone floor, my head tipping back as I giggled into the echo.
What a ridiculous life. What a fucking beautiful, bloody disaster.
The fourth had me singing.
Loudly. Off-key. Some old song from childhood, mangled by wine and hysteria.
"I'm not your little girl anymore, daddy, look at me now…"
I hiccupped.
"Traded pearls for chains, what a fairytale—ha!"
The door slammed open above.
I blinked up.
Boots on stone. Fast. Sharp. Purposeful.
A figure descended.
I kept singing.
He reached the last step and I saw the fury carved into every inch of his face.
"Do you know," he said slowly, like he was trying not to snap my neck in one movement, "that I was in a meeting with foreign investors when I heard you?"
I grinned and lifted the bottle. "Didn't know you hosted parties."
He didn't smile.
He reached me in two strides, grabbing the bottle from my hand and hurling it into the wall. Glass exploded. Wine rained.
I laughed.
"You're insane."
"And you're drunk," he said tightly. "Which is worse."
He hauled me to my feet. I stumbled against him. His grip dug into my arm as he dragged me up the stairs, through the hall, back into the heart of the house.
"You were meant to be resting," he said.
"I was meant to be free," I snapped.
He slammed me against the wall.
The air rushed from my lungs.
His eyes darkened.
"You want to disobey?" His voice dipped lower, curling like smoke. "You want to scream for attention? Then you'll get exactly what you're asking for."
I struggled against him. "Don't touch me."
"Oh, I will. Until you're sober. Until you remember who you belong to."
He opened a cabinet behind a painting, revealing iron cuffs anchored into the wall.
I froze.
"No."
He didn't hesitate.
The cuffs locked around my wrists with a metallic finality.
I wasn't sure if it was the wine, or the rage, or the fear that made me breathless.
But I was sure of one thing—
I didn't even know his name.
My captor wasn't going to be gentle as he ripped my clothes, throwing them like they didn't matter and did the same with his. Fuck.
He parted my legs, finding himself comfortable in between them. He didn't waste anytime, preparing me because my traitorous cunt was already dripping. I didn't realize I would ever like something so derogatory like being chained up.
My heart throbbed in excitement as I felt him shift and like last time, the size of him inside him tore me apart. He used the tip to rub my entrance and groaned at the contact before thrusting into me.
"Oh my god!" I squirmed but I was chained up and all I could do was wrap my legs around him as he kept plunging into me, each thrust wilder, rougher than the last.
My senses were heightened from the sheer shock and the intoxication washed away and the only thing I could think of was him inside him and that was wrong. He kept plunging, my head rolling back from the pleasure and he gripped my waist, to stabilize himself.
Fuck. "God, I'm about to cum!" the high squeaked moan left my lips before I could stop it and I did.
My breathing was haggard as he was still inside me, watching me. My chest heaved as the realization became apparent—I enjoyed being fucked brutally and I hated myself for it.