“The Exception” - Part 6
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Summary: You claw for control, but with every breath, every choice, you’re pulled deeper into his world… and further from your own.
Warnings: smut, violence, death, kidnapping, power imbalance, possessiveness, manipulation, emotional tension, stalking, implied violence, murder planning, toxic relationship dynamics, yandere
‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋⁺˚⋆｡
“I do now.”
The words hit you like another slap.
Your chest tightens. Your throat burns.
No.
Your hands curl into fists at your sides.
How dare he say that like he understands you. Like he owns you. Like he’s done you some fucking favor.
Before you can stop yourself, your voice cracks open. Louder than you meant. Fiercer than you’ve ever heard yourself.
“Shut up!”
It’s a snarl. A scream. A last breath before the fall.
God, you don’t even recognize yourself.
The words hit the air like a slap. His smile doesn’t drop, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes anymore.
“You keep saying you saved me, like I should be grateful. Like I should be—what? Thanking you? For kidnapping me? For killing someone and calling it protection?”
He blinks slowly.
“You don’t even know me,” you say, voice cracking. “You saw me on a fucking screen and decided we were—what—dating?! That’s not love. That’s obsession. You’re a fucking psycho.”
Still, he says nothing.
Just watches.
And somehow? That’s worse than yelling back.
“Say something!” you demand.
Without saying a word, he rises from his chair like it’s choreographed. Smooth, controlled.
Terrifying.
“You think love comes from time?” he asks softly. “From talking, dating, pretending? That’s what the world told you, isn’t it?”
He steps closer. You back away.
He follows.
His voice lowers, gentle yet deadly. “You’ve been begging to be kept your whole life.”
Your back hits the wall. He stops in front of you. Not touching… but too close.
“You don’t have to ask anymore.”
Your heart’s pounding. Your skin’s on fire.
“Fuck you,” you whisper.
He gives you a cheeky smile. So soft. So loving. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“I want to go home.”
“You are home.”
Without even thinking, you slap him.
Hard.
His head turns with the force of it.
Your breath catches in your throat.
Shit.
He stands still for a long moment.
Then slowly turns his face back toward you.
And he’s… smiling again?
But not wider.
Just darker.
“Feel better?” he asks gently.
You stare at him, horrified. His fingers reach up and lightly brush the corner of his mouth, where a trace of your touch still lingers. He leans in, voice like silk wrapping around your throat.
“You can hate me,” he murmurs. “You can fight me. Curse me. Make me bleed if you want. Make me suffer.”
His hand slides into your hair, soft and slow and careful.
“And I’ll still take care of you.”
He kisses your forehead—tender, reverent.
Silence lingers, but you find your voice again.
“You’re sick. You’re delusional. You think this is love? You think this—” you gesture wildly to the walls, the locked-away cliffside, the pristine kitchen “—is what I wanted?”
He watches you quietly. Such a good observer.
“You drugged me. You undressed me. You touched me without asking. That’s not protection. That’s control.”
You take a shaky step toward him, hoping you can hit something that cracks whatever delusion he’s built in his head.
“You didn’t save me,” you spit. “You just wanted to own something pretty before someone else got to it. Am I wrong?”
And that’s when he moves.
Suddenly, his hand grabs your jaw. Not hard enough to bruise, just enough to shut you up. His fingers press into your skin with quiet, practiced pressure. You freeze.
His eyes meet yours.
Gone is the softness.
What’s left is glass.
“You’re not special because I saw you.”
He leans in, breath hot against your face.
“You’re special because I chose you.”
His jaw twitches once.
“You think I haven’t watched girls like you before? You’re not the first one to cry and curse and tell me how cruel I am.”
He smiles now, small and brutal.
“But you’ll be the last.”
You can’t breathe. He presses his body closer, pinning you completely. He leans in until your noses almost touch. His voice is a whisper, but it’s razor sharp.
“And the cute thing is, you think this is control.” he murmurs. “Baby, if I wanted control, you wouldn’t be standing.”
His eyes flick over your face. Down to your lips, your chest. The bandages he wrapped himself.
“You’d be on your knees eating from my fucking hand.”
His hand drops to your waist, then lower, fingers curling possessively around your hip.
“I’ve been kind,” he says through his teeth. “Patient. Gentle. I let you scream. I let you run. I even let you hit me.”
He tilts his head.
“But let’s be clear.”
His voice dips lower, darker.
“You belong to me now. That body you keep trying to guard? Already mine. That fire in your voice? Mine. I’ll break it down, kiss it better, and make you beg for the pieces back.”
You turn your face away, but he follows.
“Don’t look away,” he growls. “Look at me when I tell you the truth.”
You do.
You’re not sure he’ll let you live if you don’t.
“You want to hate me?” he whispers. “Then hate me in my bed. Hate me while I pull your hair and make you beg for it. Hate me then. Not now.”
Your breath hitches.
He smiles.
“See?” he murmurs. “Even now, you listen better when I touch you.”
His hand brushes your face. Soft again, but cruel in its tenderness.
“You’ll understand soon. All this anger… it’s just the part of you that hasn’t accepted what the rest already knows.”
He leans in. His lips ghost over yours, but they don’t touch.
“You were fucking made for me.”
Then he steps back, leaving you breathless and trembling against the wall. And with a maddening smile, he says:
“Now sit down and eat, or I’ll feed you myself.”
You can only stare back—still pressed to the wall, hands clenched at your sides. Chest rising fast with every shallow breath.
He waits.
One second.
Two.
Three.
You don’t sit.
You don’t even speak.
So he sighs, long and theatrical, like a man disappointed with a child.
“I gave you a choice,” he says quietly.
His hand wraps around your wrist, not rough, but tight enough that you feel it. He walks you back to the table. You try to resist, just enough to say you did, but your feet still follow. There’s nowhere else to go, after all.
He pulls out the chair.
You still don’t sit.
So he does it for you.
You’re dropped into the seat like you weigh nothing. And before you can get your bearings, he’s already moving behind you.
You feel his hand brush your hair aside. He leans down, lips close to your ear:
“I told you I’d feed you myself,” he whispers. “You didn’t believe me?”
He picks up the fork, casual, elegant. Spears a piece of soft, golden egg and lifts it toward your lips.
“Open,” he says.
You don’t.
His other hand cups your chin firmly, guiding your face toward the bite.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he murmurs. “I hate repeating myself.”
You finally part your lips, just slightly.
He hums, pleased.
The fork slips past your teeth. You taste butter. Salt. Warmth. But nothing tastes real when his eyes are on you like this.
He watches your every movement. Watches you chew. Swallow. Watches your throat work like it’s the most erotic thing he’s ever seen.
“Good girl,” he breathes.
He cuts another bite. Brings it to your mouth.
“Again.”
You hesitate, but obey.
You’ve seen what happens when you don’t.
“You see?” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles across your cheek. “I know what’s best for you.”
A third bite.
Then a fourth.
His fingers trail down the back of your neck as he feeds you, slow and methodical. Almost like he’s priming something delicate to be devoured later.
“I’ll teach you how to accept care,” he whispers. “Even if I have to spoon-feed you every fucking day until it sticks.”
And something about the way he says it — so low, so certain — makes you realize he’s not bluffing.
The fifth bite slips past your lips with a quiet scrape of silver. You chew slowly. You hate how easily your body accepts it. How your hunger betrays you.
He watches every swallow like it’s proof of something. Proof he’s winning, perhaps.
And then, just as you start to reach for the water—
His hand catches your chin.
“Messy,” he murmurs, thumb grazing the corner of your mouth.
You start to pull away on instinct, but he doesn’t let you.
His grip is soft, but unmovable. Thumb still pressing to the spot just at the corner of your lip, dragging slow, like he’s savoring the act more than the cleanup.
Then, still holding your face in place, he slips that same thumb into your mouth. Not deep. Just enough to press to your tongue.
Just enough to make your breath stutter.
“Clean it,” he says.
Your stomach flips.
Huh?
His eyes darken.
“I said,” he breathes, “clean it.”
You close your lips around his thumb. He watches the way your mouth moves, lashes lowering slightly, chest rising with a quiet inhale like it’s affecting him, too.
You hate that your skin is burning under his touch. You hate the way your body responds.
He pulls his thumb out with a soft, wet sound and wipes the last trace of saliva against your lower lip.
“Good,” he says. “Much better.”
His hand lingers a moment longer. His eyes dragging down your face, over your mouth. You want to scream. Throw something. Bite him, for fuck sake.
But you sit still instead.
Then, without a word:
He steps back.
Turns.
And walks away.
No warning. No softness. No smug look over his shoulder.
Just the casual scrape of the chair as it’s pushed in, the steady rhythm of his footsteps fading into the hall.
He doesn’t even look at you. The silence he leaves behind is worse than his voice. Worse than his hands. Because now?
You’re alone.
Your breath comes in shaky bursts.
He didn’t lock you up.
Didn’t scream.
Didn’t force anything.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
Because he didn’t need to.
You sit there.
You wait.
Five seconds.
Ten.
A minute.
Ten.
Twenty.
He doesn’t come back.
You expect a door to slam. A lock to click. A punishment to start.
But there’s nothing.
Just you.
He touched you. He fed you. He put his fingers in your mouth and smiled like he owned you. And now he’s gone, like it meant nothing.
You shoot up from the chair so fast it topples over. The legs hit the tile with a crash.
Your breath is ragged, too loud in the stillness. Your hands shake as you grab the plate and hurl it across the room. It hits the wall and shatters, scrambled eggs and ceramic exploding like a warning shot.
Then the water glass.
Then the second plate he set aside for himself.
You don’t stop.
You can’t.
You grab the chair and shove it down. You kick the edge of the table. Something inside you breaks loud, and you want him to hear it.
COME BACK.
No, you don’t say it out loud.
But your body does.
You want him to react. To yell. To hit. To do something.
Can he just come back?
Because the silence is worse.
You stand there, panting, fists clenched, the kitchen a war zone of broken glass and ruined control.
No footsteps.
No voice.
No “good girl”.
Just the sound of waves outside and the echo of your own breathing.
Your legs finally give, and you slide to the floor, curling into yourself. The glass crunches beneath your folded knees, sharp against your skin. Your palms are sticky from something—water? Juice? Blood?
Who knows.
You cry until your body stops fighting back.
Until your breathing slows.
Until your limbs go heavy, and your lashes flutter closed, and the floor becomes the only place you exist.
You fall asleep in the wreckage of your own fury.
All that’s left is you.
‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋⁺˚⋆｡
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