My body feels heavy, weighed down by a dull, throbbing ache that has settled deep in my hips. I wake up tangled in sheets that smell like him—expensive cologne, musk, and the faint, metallic scent of violence.
I roll over, wincing as the movement pulls at the tender skin of my lower back. The mahogany desk left bruises. Stavros left marks.
I stare at the open doorway. The missing lock is a gaping wound in the wood, a permanent reminder that I have no sanctuary. Two guards stand in the hallway, their shadows stretching across my floor like prison bars.
I’m not safe in this bed. I’m not safe in this house. I am a bird in a gilded cage, and the door is wide open only because the hawk knows I have nowhere to fly.
I drag myself out of bed. I don't cry. I think I ran out of tears on that d
