VINCENZO VOLKOV;
Watching my little mouse sleep was a twisted kind of beauty, almost too perfect. Fragile, delicate—she's nothing more than a toy waiting to be broken. Sweet? Sure, but that’s just the mask she wears. Small enough to crush, but still foolish enough to think she can resist. I couldn’t let my little mouse scurry off with any wild ideas, so I threw her over my shoulder like the helpless thing she is and dragged her back to the house. Chains fit her well, don’t they? They keep her trapped, exactly where she belongs.
She doesn’t need much—bedroom, bathroom, maybe the dressing room if I feel generous.
Creatures like her need control. And I’m the one who’ll handle her with the perfect balance of cruelty and care.
"Argh..." she groaned, tossing in bed, her body betraying the pa
