Morning broke slowly, the pale light creeping in through the narrow crack beneath the door. My body, stiff from the night spent against the cold stone, ached with every movement. The collar around my neck pressed against my throat, its weight a constant reminder of my captivity, its clasp growing more suffocating with each passing hour. I didn't know how long I had been here, but it felt like a lifetime.
The door opened without warning, flooding the room with harsh light. I flinched, instinctively shrinking into myself. There was nowhere to hide. Alexander stood in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the brilliance of the outside world. His eyes swept over me, cold and calculating, before something almost imperceptible flickered—concern, perhaps? It was gone as quickly as it appeared, and I wondered if I had imagined it.
"Get up," he ordered, his voice like ice.
I didn't move. The collar, the exhaustion of the night—it all pressed down on me, keeping me rooted to the floor. Too weak to stand, too terrified to disobey.
"You're not dead yet, are you?" His words cut through the silence, sharp but oddly... not cruel.
I swallowed, trying to gather some semblance of strength, but my voice came out weak. "I'm fine," I lied, even though I knew it wasn't true. "Leave me alone."
For a long moment, he said nothing, his gaze fixed on me like I was some object he was studying. Then, finally, he crouched beside me, his large frame blocking out the dim light. His fingers brushed the collar, inspecting it with unsettling precision.
"You're not fine," he muttered, his voice quieter now but just as firm. "But I'm not leaving you here to die."
I flinched at the words, as if death itself hovered in the room, just out of reach. Alexander stood and moved toward a small table I hadn't noticed before. On it were syringes, an IV bag, and other medical supplies, all arranged with unnerving precision. The sight made my heart race, panic building in my chest.
"What are you doing?" My voice was little more than a croak.
He didn't look up. His hands moved efficiently, setting the supplies out with grim purpose. "Taking care of you."
My mouth went dry. "Why?" I whispered, the fear clawing at my throat.
He glanced at me, a fleeting look of calculation in his eyes. "Because I don't need you dying on me. Not yet."
I swallowed again, trying to shake off the overwhelming fear. "You... want to keep me alive?"
A brief, cold smile curled his lips. "I don't owe you an explanation, Emma. But if you're going to be of any use to me, I need you functional."
His words hit me like a slap, but I couldn't react. Not yet. My mind was too clouded with confusion, a strange, reluctant sense of gratitude twisting my stomach. I wanted to scream at him, to lash out, but as his hands gently wiped my feet, the touch felt... almost kind. A soft, unnerving tenderness. Was this just another form of control? Or was there something deeper, something darker beneath the surface? I couldn't decide. My body, too weak to fight, betrayed me, allowing me to feel... cared for, even though every instinct screamed to resist.
I closed my eyes, trying to block out the sensations, but they lingered. His fingers brushed too lightly against my skin, the soft, damp cloth making my heart beat faster.
When he approached with the IV bag, I stiffened. The needle gleamed in his hands as he prepared it, his movements slow and deliberate. "This will help," he said, as though that explanation meant anything at all. The sterile smell of the medical supplies mixed with the faint scent of something sharp and unfamiliar—something that seemed to cling to him like a dark shadow.
The needle punctured my skin, and I hissed at the cool rush of fluid entering my veins. It stung, but it was more than that. It was the feeling of something invasive, something insidious. The exhaustion that had been gnawing at me for hours dragged me deeper into a haze. My limbs grew heavier, and my vision blurred, the room spinning around me.
He stepped back, watching me closely as I struggled to remain awake. His gaze never wavered, but there was something in it—an intensity, a quiet kind of triumph. "Rest," he commanded, his voice soft but unyielding.
I wanted to resist, to fight against the darkness creeping over me, but the weight of everything—the pain, the fear, the confusion—it was too much. My eyelids fluttered shut, and despite myself, I surrendered to the pull of sleep.
***
When I woke, the room had changed. Gone was the cold, barren space I had been locked in. Instead, I found myself in a lavish bedroom. The soft silk sheets beneath me felt foreign, too smooth against my skin, and I shuddered at the sudden contrast. My head throbbed, and my body was weak, but the softness of the bed was undeniable.
I tried to sit up, but my limbs refused to cooperate, my muscles aching from both the restraint and the unspoken fear. I slumped back against the pillows, my mind foggy, struggling to make sense of my surroundings.
A soft sound drew my attention, and I turned my head to find Alexander sitting beside the bed. He held a glass of water, his expression as impassive as ever, but there was something almost... tender about the way he looked at me now.
"Drink," he said, his voice softer than I expected, a quiet command.
I stared at the glass, then back at him, confusion and anger swirling inside me. But I couldn't ignore the thirst that gnawed at me, so I took the glass from his hand and drank, the cool liquid soothing my parched throat. When I finished, Alexander took the glass from me and placed it on the nightstand. His eyes remained fixed on me, his face unreadable as he leaned over and gently wiped my hands and feet with a damp cloth. His touch was unexpectedly tender, the act strangely intimate. His gaze never wavered, but there was something in his eyes—something that almost made me feel... cared for, even though the thought sickened me. I watched him in silence, my mind spinning. Was this his way of showing control? Of asserting dominance over me in a different, more insidious way? Or was there something more to this? He is a sadist, a psycho; if not, then what does he want from me? Will he lock me up like the woman who was trapped in that dark room, never to be seen again? The fear crept in, sending shivers down my spine as I tried to anticipate his next move. What does this man want? I must find a way to escape before it's too late. But before I could dwell on it further, I heard him speak, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he didn't realize I was still awake.
"She'll never understand. She can't. She's too... fragile. Just a 19-year-old girl, trying to navigate a world that's too harsh for her innocence. But caught with the devil himself, she doesn't stand a chance."
I froze, my heart pounding in my chest. Who was he talking about? Was it me? The sins he spoke of... were they mine? The realization hit me like a wave, but there was something chilling about his certainty. He spoke of justice—his twisted, unrelenting idea of it—as though it were the only truth that mattered.
"She'll never understand, but she will. I'll make sure of it," he murmured again, his voice growing darker, more ominous. "And only then will she truly pay."
The words felt like ice in my veins, but what terrified me most was the certainty in his tone. I couldn't stop the spiral of thoughts that followed: Was this about me? Or someone else? His obsession... was it with me? Was I just a pawn in his twisted game?
Who was he talking about? What did he mean by "pay for sins, whose sins?" But before I could think more about it, I felt my eyes growing heavy once again, the exhaustion overtaking me as I drifted into unconsciousness once more. But I couldn't forget those words, the chilling realization that Alexander had been speaking to himself, revealing something deeper. Something darker.