You came back to consciousness slowly, like dragging yourself out of deep water. Your head hurt, your body felt drained, and the panic from before kept replaying in painful flashes. The blindfold was gone. There were no restraints. And somehow, you were lying in your own bed. Fresh clothes. Soft blanket. Curtains pulled shut like someone was hiding the world from you. The room felt colder than usual.
Your heartbeat spiked the moment the door opened. He walked in casually, almost bored, carrying a tray. You couldn’t tell what was on it. You tried to push yourself off the bed, but your body barely cooperated, sliding weakly back into the sheets. He just sighed, like you were being dramatic.
“Relax, sweetheart. Get some rest.” It wasn’t comforting. It sounded more like a threat accompanied by his sharp glare. He kissed your jaw carefully.
The shimmer of amusement in his eyes made your stomach twist. He enjoyed watching you panic. He always had. That lazy half-smile tugged at his mouth as if this entire situation was something funny to him. He placed the tray on the bedside table and leaned in, his voice dropping to something deceptively soft.
“Honestly, you look at me like I’m a monster. I brought you dinner.”
You stared at him, disbelief burning hotter than the fear. “What…do you want?” you uttered breathlessly.
He clicked his tongue and shook his head, almost offended. “What do I want? How about you start with ‘thank you for the meal’? Be grateful, yeah? I’m trying here. How will you thank me?”
His tone began unraveling as he spoke, slipping between calm and something more scattered. It wasn’t the cold, calculated voice from earlier. This was rawer. Less stable. More honest. And that scared you more than anything.
Your throat tightened, tears threatening to fall. "Thank y-you,” you whispered. He looked satisfied in a way that made your skin crawl.
You stared at the tray. Soup. A sweet drink. It looked normal. That somehow made it worse. You didn’t dare touch it. “Don’t look so scared,” he murmured. He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear like you were something delicate he had to position just right.
Then, almost as if reading your thoughts, he picked up the drink and took a slow sip. “See? I don’t poison people I love.”
Before you could flinch away, his hand suddenly wrapped around your throat. Not tight–just enough to jolt you, enough to make your breath stutter. Your eyes widened, and he tilted his head, studying your fear like it entertained him. When you lifted your hands to his wrist, half-choking, half-shaking, he let out a low laugh.
"God, relax,” he chuckled, tilting his head as if you were being adorable. “You can still breathe. Stop acting like I’m killing you.”
Heat crawled up your neck as it hit you–his grip was loose. Embarrassingly loose. And he knew it. His thumb brushed your pulse, slow and mocking, like he was savoring the way it jumped for him. Before you could pull away, he dipped his head down to kiss you.
You would've curse yourself a million times for all of your carelessness that lead to this. That is if you could even think in this moment.
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