AMANDA
I can hear my own breathing—ragged, shallow, too loud, like every breath is a betrayal, like even the sound of my own body refusing to give in is something I shouldn’t allow.
I can hear the chains groaning, metal biting into my wrists as I tremble, my muscles locked in an agonizing, useless struggle. My shoulders burn, my spine aches, my fingers are numb. But I don’t move.
I won’t.
I will not.
Theodus tilts his head, golden eyes gleaming, a lazy sort of amusement curling at the edges of his lips. He knows.
And that’s what makes it worse.
He sighs, slow and sharp, a breath full of mock disappointment. His fingers trace along my jaw, barely there, a whisper of touch that isn’t soft, isn’t kind—just possessive. A mockery of tenderness.
"You’re hesitating again," he murmurs.
I
