AUTHOR POV

Somewhere,

The door slammed open so violently that the hinges screamed.

A vase shattered against the marble floor.

A second later, the man holding a blood-slick knife hurled it into the wall, where it stuck quivering like a dagger in flesh. His chest rose and fell with labored breath, hair matted to his temple, his shirt half-unbuttoned and soaked with crimson — someone else's blood.

The room had once been pristine. Lavish. Now, it was a tomb of shattered glass and overturned furniture. A grotesque painting in motion, painted by a madman's rage.

And he was the artist.

"Where the fuck is she?" he roared, voice vibrating with venom.

No answer.

The guards — or what remained of them — lay slumped across the hallway. Broken bones, crushed windpipes, shattered skulls. Each one of them had failed. Each one of them had returned without her. And each one had paid.

He stalked through the room, heavy boots slamming against marble, every breath more unhinged than the last.

"She was mine," he snarled, gripping the edge of a cabinet and flinging it against the wall, shattering everything inside. "I made her. Shaped her. Every scream, every scar, every night she spent under me... I own that!"

He stopped near the window, looking out over the fogged city.

His reflection in the glass stared back at him — wild eyes, blood-smeared cheek, the twitch of a man who had long since crossed into madness.

"You all told me she'd never escape. That she wouldn't dare." His voice dropped to a whisper. "And yet she's gone. Gone."

He turned abruptly, eyes falling on the blood trail leading to a near-dead man propped against the doorframe — the last of the hunters he'd sent.

"Where is she gone?" he asked, crouching low with terrifying calm. "Tell me."

The man could barely lift his eyes.

"D-didn't see her... she—she vanished... the river... she—"

Before he could finish, the monster's hand closed around his throat and squeezed.

"Wrong answer," he hissed. "You had one job. Bring her back to me. One. And now..."

A sickening crack silenced the man forever.

He stood again, breathing heavier, dragging his hand across his lips like wiping away disappointment.

His eyes glazed over again — and this time, the past pulled him under.

She was so small the first time he took her.

Eyes full of resistance. Defiance. Hope.

Hope. That was the first thing he broke.

He remembered the way she shook, huddled in the corner of the dark room, eyes wide as he approached with the collar in his hand. She'd screamed the first time. Pleaded the second. By the third, she had stopped begging — and that had been the sweetest victory.

And at night... when the room echoed with sobs, when she curled into herself and trembled under his weight — he thrived on it.

Each plea — "Please stop, please—" — had made his pulse race.

He would lean in, whisper against her ear: "Begging only makes it better, little bird."

And then he'd break her again.

Every night, he left a new mark on her — skin purpling under his grip, blood drying between her thighs, pain radiating from her like perfume. And when she finally passed out, body limp, too broken to scream — he'd lie beside her, cradling her like a lover.

She was perfect like that — silent, obedient, ruined.

His laugh tore through the room now — sharp, manic, cracked with delight and fury.

"She said no, and still trembled when I touched her. She said stop, and it only made me hungrier." His voice rose. "You think she hated it? She cried for me. She broke for me. She breathed because I allowed it!"

The chandelier above swayed slightly as he hurled a chair across the room, wood splintering as it struck the pillar.

And yet... despite everything, she had escaped.

That bitch had escaped.

"She thinks she's safe," he muttered, pacing again. "She thinks someone can protect her. Someone who'll treat her gently. Who'll kiss her scars instead of making new ones."

He laughed again. Cruel. Cracked.

"She's dreaming."

He walked over to the room he hadn't opened in days. The one she'd been kept in. The door creaked as he stepped inside.

The air still held her scent.

Chains hung from the ceiling, cold and still. The bed was stripped, blood dried into the mattress. The mirror she'd been forced to look into while he ruined her was cracked but intact — he'd made her watch. Always watch.

"You looked beautiful like this," he murmured to no one, tracing the edge of the cracked glass. "Tears down your cheeks, eyes swollen... and still you tried to fight. Still you said 'no.' That was the best part."

His hand clenched.

"You can't leave me," he whispered.

He stepped toward the wall where her pictures still hung. Not smiling ones — he'd taken them in the dark. After he'd broken her. After she bled.

"You're not out there living in peace. No. You're hiding," he spat. "You're trembling every second, looking over your shoulder, waiting for me. You know I'll come. You know what happens when you disobey."

His voice turned soft. Almost loving.

"I'll find you. And when I do... I'll make sure you never walk again. You'll sleep in chains. You'll eat from my hand. You'll scream until your voice dies again. Just like before."

He turned slowly, surveying the room with reverence — like a shrine.

Then, suddenly — rage.

He pulled the chains from the ceiling with one violent tug, metal screeching, bolts ripping from the concrete. He hurled them across the room, eyes bloodshot, breath wild.

"You were mine!" he bellowed. "And no one takes what's mine!"

Hours passed.

The bodies were dragged out. The blood cleaned.

He sat in the darkness, in her room, tracing the bruised handprint on the wall — one she'd left during one of her many attempts to crawl away from him.

And his voice was a whisper now.

"No one 'll ever love you like I did. They'll never own you like I did. They'll never make you feel as alive as I did when I broke you, when I made you forget who you were."

His smile returned — twisted, dangerous.

"You can run," he said softly. "But you'll never be free."

Then he picked up a fresh blade.

And began to plan.

"He didn't need to find her scent—he carried her screams in his blood, and they would lead him back to her, no matter who had to die along the way."

 ♡

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