I woke up groggy, my head heavy, my wrists sore from the cuffs. The room was dim, shadows stretching across the walls, and the faint hum of the air conditioning filled the silence. My stepfather was sitting in the corner chair, watching me.
The weight of his stare pressed on me harder than the restraints. His shirt was half undone, sleeves rolled up, veins visible on his forearms. There was no patience in his eyes, only hunger.
“Comfortable?” he asked, his tone mocking.
I tugged against the cuffs, the cold metal biting into my skin. “You can’t keep me like this,” I snapped, though my voice betrayed the heat curling inside me.
He smirked. “I can do whatever I want with what’s mine.”
The word slammed into me like a punch. Mine. The kind of word that both terrified and thrilled me. I hat
