Why isn’t he moving?
The question clawed at me, irrational and desperate.
He had been given permission. Morpheus had handed me over like property, like merchandise, like something to be used and discarded.
She’s all yours.
Why was he just standing there?
I tried to read his expression, tried to find some clue in the hard lines of his face, in the predatory stillness of his posture. But there was nothing. Just that black, consuming gaze. Just the weight of his attention pressing down on me like a physical force.
My hands uncurled slowly. My fingers ached from how tightly I had been clenching them. I pressed my palms flat against the concrete and felt the cold bite into my skin.
Say something. Do something. Anything.
But he didn’t. His silence was worse than violence. Worse than pain. Because I knew how to survive violence. I had been doing it my whole life. I knew how to shut down, how to disconnect, how to let my body take the damage while my mind went somewhere else. But this? This suspended moment, this terrible waiting, this refusal to act? I didn’t know how to survive this.
My breath hitched as frustration built in my chest like pressure behind a dam. My skin felt too tight as my nerves screamed for release, for something to happen.
Touch me. Hurt me. Just fucking do something!My mind screamed at him, but Nano remained motionless. A statue carved from violence and restraint. And I hated him for it. I hated the way he looked at me, like he could see straight to the broken thing inside me that wanted this. I hated the way my body responded. The heat that pooled low in my belly. The wetness between my thighs. The shameful arousal that came from being watched like prey.
Mostly, I hated that he knew. That he could see it. Smell it. That he understood exactly what I was and what I wanted and was choosing not to give it to me.
Why?The question burned in my throat, desperate and furious.Why won’t you touch me?
But I didn’t say it out loud. I couldn’t, because asking would be admitting something I couldn’t afford to admit. It would be giving him a weapon I couldn’t afford to hand over. So I stayed silent and kneeled on the cold concrete floor as my body trembled, my breath too fast and my eyes locked on his, and waited.
And then, without warning, Nano moved. Not toward me. Away. He turned sharply, his boots heavy on the concrete, and strode toward the stairs.
I watched him go as my mind struggled to process what had happened.
He’s leaving.The thought was incomprehensible. He just left. Walked away. Without touching me. Without hurting me. Without doing any of the things his eyes had promised. My mind screamed in my head, desperate and irrational.No, you can’t leave. You can’t just—but he was already halfway up the stairs,his broad shoulders disappearing into the shadows. The door at the top opened, then closed, and then I was alone.
The silence that crashed over me was absolute and suffocating.
I stayed frozen for a moment, my mind blank, my body still coiled tight with anticipation that had nowhere to go, and then something broke inside me.
A sob tore from my throat. Raw, ugly, and completely involuntary.
No. No, don’t cry. Don’t you dare fucking cry.But I couldn’t stop my tears as they streamed down my face, hot and humiliating, blurring my vision. My shoulders shook; my breath came in rough, ragged gasps that echoed off the concrete walls. I pressed my hands to my face, trying to wipe the tears away, trying to stop the breakdown that ripped through me like a tidal wave, but they kept coming. Kept falling. And I didn’t understand why.
I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t scared. I was angry. Furious. At him. At myself. At the terrible, fractured response my body was having to his absence.He rejected you.The thought hit me like a punch to the gut. He looked at me, saw me kneeling before him, trembling and aroused, and he walked away. Like I wasn’t worth his time. Like I wasn’t worth the violence. And that rejection hurt worse than anything he could have done to me.
What the fuck is wrong with you?The question echoed through my head, vicious and unforgiving.You wanted him to hurt you. You were begging for it. And now you’re crying because he didn’t?
But I couldn’t stop my tears. I couldn’t stop the sobs that were tearing from my throat, couldn’t stop the way my entire body shook with something that felt like grief. My whole life, I had braced for violence. I knew how to survive it. How to endure it. How to let it wash over me and come out the other side stillbreathing. But this? This psychological game, this refusal to give me what I was prepared for? I didn’t know how to survive this.
My hands dropped from my face, falling limply to my sides, as my tears kept coming, streaming down my cheeks, dripping onto the concrete floor. I felt broken. Shattered. Not because he hurt me. But because he hadn’t.
You wanted him to choke you. You wanted him to make you come so you can hate yourself for it. You wanted the violence because at least then you will know what you are dealing with.The realization was devastating. I had wanted him to hurt me. Not because I was brave. Not because I had some death wish, but because the pain was familiar. Violence was something I understood. And his rejection, his refusal to give me what my fractured body begged for, destroyed me in a way his hands around my throat could never have.
You’re so fucked up.The thought was bitter. True. I was fucked up. Michael had only stumbled upon my fractured soul and used it to his advantage to make him seem bigger than he really was. But the actual damage had been done long before I met him. When I didn’t realize what was happening, when I was innocent, when I didn’t know any better. I thoughthewas showering me with love, that he cared about me. I knew now thathehad trained me, molded me, and rewired my brain until pleasure and pain were so tangled together I couldn’t separate them anymore. Until the only way I could feel anything was if someone hurt me.
And Nano knew it.
He had seen it when I came while he choked me. Seen the wet spot on my jeans, the involuntary response my body had to his violence. And now he was using it against me. Not by giving me what I wanted. But by denying it. By showing me that he could hurt me. That he had the power, the permission, the desire, and chose not to.
He is making you want him.The thought made bile rise in my throat. Because it was true. He was making me crave violence. Making me hunger for it. Making me beg for it without saying a word, and when he finally gave it to me, when he finally wrapped his hand around my throat and squeezed, I would be so desperate for it I would thank him for it.
