Quicksand

Adrik doesn't let go.

His grip in my hair tightens as he drags me forward, my legs too weak to keep up. My body slumps against him, my head lolling, but he doesn't slow down. He never does.

Then, suddenly—I'm lifted.

My body collides with his chest, the fabric of his suit too crisp, too clean against my filthy skin. I expect him to flinch, to grimace at the filth coating me, but he doesn't. He just adjusts his hold, cradling me like I'm something delicate.

I hate that it feels warm.

I hate that my body leans into it.

Hate that, for a single, fractured second, it feels like safety.

He carries me out of the room without a word. The air outside is too fresh, too different, and I don't realize how little I've been breathing until my lungs choke on the sudden absence of decay.

I don't ask where he's taking me.

I don't resist.

I know better.

The Bathroom

The sound of running water jolts me from the haze in my head.

Adrik sets me down on the edge of a marble tub, massive and pristine. The room is bright—*too bright—*the stark white tiles making me feel even filthier than I already am.

He crouches before me, his eyes dragging over my ruined dress, the dried blood clinging to my skin.

He exhales, slow, measured. "You look awful."

I say nothing.

He grabs the hem of my dress and starts pulling it up.

I jerk away on instinct, weak hands grasping at the fabric, but his grip is firm. Unyielding. His gaze snaps to mine, a silent warning flashing in the depths of his cold blue eyes.

"Don't fight me," he murmurs, his tone soft but lethal.

My stomach twists.

I don't want this. I don't want him touching me.

But resisting will only make it worse.

So I let go.

The dress peels away from my body like a second skin, stiff with grime. When it hits the floor, the weight of my vulnerability crashes into me.

I feel exposed. Small. Breakable.

Adrik, however, looks satisfied.

The water is hot when he lowers me in, a sharp contrast against my ice-cold skin. I flinch, but he keeps his hands steady, pressing me down, making sure I don't try to climb back out.

The heat seeps into my bones, but it doesn't erase the filth. It doesn't erase the blood.

His fingers find my wrist, dragging a washcloth over my skin. The gesture is almost gentle. Almost normal.

But this isn't kindness.

This is control.

He watches me the entire time, his grip firm as he scrubs away the evidence of his punishment. Scrubbing me clean, preparing me for whatever comes next.

When he's finished, he pulls me out, wrapping me in a thick, soft towel. But there's no warmth in his touch.

Only ownership.

I expect him to take me to his room.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he carries me down another hall, pushing open a door to a different room.