Pretty Little Toy
1058 Words
Right in front of her, sprawled across her bed, was the guy who she sent to drop Tyler in her room—leaning over an unconscious Tyler, his hands where they had no right to be.
Morgan’s voice sliced through the silence, cold and dangerous.
"And what the hell do you think you’re doing?"
She spun the pistol slowly around her finger, calmly.
The man froze. Then scrambled back, stumbling off the bed and falling to his knees. His face drained of color, lips trembling.
“My Lord—please, it’s not what it looks like. I can explain—”
The shot rang out before he could finish.
He collapsed with a thud, blood pooling beneath him.
Morgan didn’t spare him a second glance. She pressed a button on her earpiece.
“Clean this up.”
A moment later, one of her men appeared, dragging the body away without a word. By the time she crossed the room, the room was clean again, the air quiet, as if nothing had happened.
Tyler lay where he had been laid, still asleep, oblivious to what had just unfolded. Morgan stood over him, her eyes narrowing.
She leaned in slightly, brushing a finger along his cheek.
"What kind of sleep are you in, hmm? Someone nearly violated you, and you didn’t even twitch."
Her tone was low, unreadable. A faint smirk touched her lips.
And at that mument tyler stirred. His lashes fluttered open. Confused eyes met hers.
Her smirk deepened.
She straightened, stepping back with measured calm.
"Get up."
Tyler’s eyes widened. He pushed himself up slowly, limbs trembling as he stood before her.
He didn’t meet her gaze. Instead, he dropped his eyes to the floor, silent, his body stiff with fear, hands clenching at his sides.
Morgan’s smile was slight but satisfied.
Obedient. Good.
Time to see just how far that obedience would go.
"Kneel," Morgan commanded, her voice cold and sharp like the edge of a blade.
Tyler obeyed without a second thought. It was as if obedience had already been etched into his bones. His knees hit the floor with a soft thud. He kept his eyes down, his body trembling ever so slightly, fear radiating off him in waves.
Morgan smirked, watching him—this delicate boy kneeling before her like a sacrifice.
She stepped closer, her heels clicking against the floor. Bending slightly, she lifted his chin with a single finger, forcing his face up to meet her gaze.
"From now on," she said quietly, almost like a whisper of silk, "you will call me Master. Am I clear?"
Tyler’s lips quivered. A single tear slipped down his cheek, catching the light. He lifted his eyes just enough to look at her, the words soft and broken as they left his mouth.
"Yes… Master."
A flicker of satisfaction danced in Morgan’s eyes. With a slow, deliberate motion, she wiped the tear from his face with the pad of her thumb.
"You look pretty when you cry," she murmured. "Maybe I’ll make you cry more often."
She straightened, letting her hand fall away, then turned toward the door.
"Stay in here. Don’t go anywhere. Someone will bring food and a change of clothes." She paused, glancing back over her shoulder. "Am I clear?"
"Yes, Master." Still kneeling, his voice was barely above a whisper.
"Good. You can get up now."
She walked out, heels clicking softly and shut the door behind her with a soft click.
Silence.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, Tyler collapsed. His body folded in on itself as he curled up on the cold floor, arms hugging his knees. Silent tears slid down his cheeks, soaking into the thin fabric of his shirt.
He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know who she was. But the only thing he knew for certain was that she terrified him. Her voice, her presence—it wrapped around him like chains.
He stayed like that for what felt like hours, unmoving, until a knock jolted him upright. The door creaked open, and a broad-shouldered man stepped in, his expression unreadable, jaw clenched tight. He carried a tray of food in one hand and folded clothes in the other.
Tyler flinched, scrambling backward until his back hit the wall. His heart thundered in his chest, and he instinctively pulled his knees closer, bracing for whatever might come.
But the man didn’t speak. He just dropped the items on the table and shot him a cold look before turning and leaving without a word. The door closed behind him with a soft but final click.
Tyler stayed frozen for a moment longer, waiting to see if someone else would enter. When no one came, he cautiously stood, his legs unsteady beneath him. He took the clean clothes and walked to the small adjoining bathroom. The warm water soothed his trembling body, and the scent of soap was the first familiar comfort he’d had in days.
Once dressed, he returned to the table. The scent of food made his stomach growl, and he hesitated only a second before digging in. The taste made his eyes widen—it was delicious. He devoured it all quickly, licking his lips and rubbing his belly once he was done.
Then he lay back on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. His thoughts drifted—to his parents, to the gunshot, to the begging voice of his father echoing through the walls.
He had heard it all. Every cry. Every shot.
But he hadn’t felt a thing.
His parents had never loved him. Not really. They kept him hidden, treated him like a shameful secret. He didn’t know what maternal warmth felt like. He didn’t know what it meant to be held or cherished. So no, he couldn’t blame her for what she did.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t afraid of her.
The door creaked open again, slicing through his thoughts.
Tyler shot up instantly, falling to his knees on the bed, eyes downcast, body trembling.
He didn’t need to be told anymore.
Morgan stepped inside, her smirk curling at the corners of her lips as she saw him kneel without a word.
Good boy.
Her gaze roamed over him like a silent threat before her voice cut through the room like ice.
"Strip."
- Writer
