He says the forbidden word.
Yes, he does—loud and clear.
Even as I dangle from his hands, lungs desperate for air, my mind frantic and foggy, I hear it. That single word, forbidden and thrilling all at once. It slices through the suffocating haze like the crack of a whip.
And I laugh.
Not out loud—no, I'm smarter than that—but somewhere deep inside, I'm grinning like I've just been handed the juiciest secret of all. He thinks he's in control. He thinks I'm afraid.
I am not afraid.
The world blurs at the edges, the burn in my throat sharp and unforgiving. My fingers claw at his hands, but I know it's pointless. I know how this ends.
And yet, in the quiet corners of my mind, I feel it. A rush. A spark. The electric thrill of someone who might—just might—be capable of killing me. It's not that I want to die. Not exactly. But stars, doesn't the idea of someone actually capable of doing it make me feel alive?
