The first thing Ash felt was softness.
Not the sterile, paper-thin cot she'd grown used to—this was something else entirely. The mattress beneath her cradled her form, and the blanket resting lightly over her was neither rough nor soaked in sweat. It smelled faintly of cedar and something clean—too clean. Artificial.
Her eyes remained shut.
It wasn't safety that kept her still. It was confusion. Fear dressed in silk. The kind that paralyzes you, not because you're in pain—but because you're not.
Ash blinked.
Dim light filtered through half-drawn curtains, slashing across the room in golden stripes. Shadows moved beside her. A presence. A breathing one.
She turned her head slightly.
He was already awake.
Riven lay on his side, one hand under his head, his other resting lightly across his own chest. His shirt was gone. He didn't smile. Didn't blink. Just watched her with that same unreadable expression he wore the day she was dragged from the van.
Ash tried to sit up—and froze.
The collar.
A cold, humming weight now hugged her neck. Smooth on the outside, glowing softly red near the clasp. Not tight, not constricting… but present. Like a leash without a visible end.
She reached for it with trembling fingers, but before her hand could touch the clasp, his voice cut through the silence.
"Don't."
Simple. Sharp. Not loud, but enough to halt her motion mid-air.
Ash blinked again. Her mouth opened. No words came out.
Riven sat up slowly. No rush. Every movement deliberate.
He didn't touch her—yet—but his eyes drifted down, scanning her skin like a technician inspecting a machine. Ash followed his gaze, seeing what he saw for the first time.
Faint bruises along her ribs. The ghost of a scar beneath her collarbone. Her wrists bore fading marks from restraints. Her legs—clean now—still showed patterns of past punishment, painted in pale blues and angry purples.
Her body had been scrubbed. Sterilized. Her hair washed and combed, left to fall over her shoulders like some kind of twisted grooming ritual.
She was dressed in a thin, neutral-toned shirt—too big for her, but soft. Bare legs. No shoes. No freedom.
Only the collar.
He tilted his head slightly.
"A month," Riven murmured. "That's how long it took to peel the layers."
Ash flinched at the sound of his voice. Not because he shouted. But because he didn't need to.
He reached toward her—not to touch her skin, but to adjust the collar, his fingers brushing her throat lightly as he aligned the clasp. She gasped. The gesture wasn't violent. It was worse. Clinical. Like he was fine-tuning something he owned.
Ash swallowed, or tried to. Her throat felt tight. Her voice thinner than she remembered.
"Why…?" she managed, her eyes wide. "Why are you doing this?"
Riven stood.
He walked away from the bed without answering. Grabbed a folded shirt from a nearby dresser. Slipped it on.
The silence pressed against her chest harder than any blow ever had.
And then—he turned back.
"Get up."
Ash didn't move.
She couldn't tell if the command was optional.
The collar buzzed once—barely a vibration—and her body reacted on instinct. Legs off the bed. Feet on the cold wooden floor. Knees buckling slightly as she stood upright for the first time in… how long?
She didn't remember walking. Only that suddenly she was behind him, following his pace without a word.
The hallway stretched ahead—pristine, minimalistic. Expensive.
Too clean.
Ash's bare feet whispered over marble. No noise. No warmth.
They passed rooms she didn't dare look into. Too many mirrors. Too many versions of her she didn't want to see.
Finally, they stopped at a grand dining table—long enough to seat ten. But only two places were set. One on each end.
He pointed to the chair closest to the window.
She sat.
Riven sat opposite. Then gestured with a slight nod.
Dishes were already laid out. Real food. Steak, soft bread, fruit slices, a glass of water so clear it shimmered like crystal. No nutrient paste. No IV tubes. No metallic trays.
Ash stared at it as though it might bite her.
She didn't touch it.
Riven folded his hands in front of him.
"I had them feed you like an animal," he said flatly. "Because you acted like one."
Her jaw clenched.
"But now," he continued, "you've remembered what it means to behave."
She didn't respond. Her hands remained in her lap.
He waited. Patient.
"The food is not poisoned."
Still, Ash hesitated.
"You can starve," he said, voice calm. "It's your choice."
That did it.
She picked up the fork, her hands still trembling, and sliced a piece of meat with careful fingers. She brought it to her lips slowly. The taste hit like lightning. Salt. Butter. Realness. She closed her eyes without meaning to.
A breath escaped her lips.
She didn't realize she was crying until a tear touched the corner of her mouth.
Riven watched her like a scientist observing the aftermath of an experiment.
The air was still thick with the weight of silence.
Ash—no, Arisa—sat on the cold chair opposite Riven, bones sharp beneath too-soft skin. Her eyes darted to him with every movement he made, like a stray animal waiting for a new command. But what terrified her wasn't what he did—it was what he didn't.
Riven leaned forward slowly, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice was a whisper, but it sliced through the quiet like a scalpel.
> "Arisa."
She froze. Not from confusion—but from recognition. Her chest tightened.
That name hadn't touched her ears in over a month. Not from anyone. Not even herself. She'd bitten it back in the cell. Let it rot in the darkness. Ash was easier—hollow, forgettable, harmless.
But Riven? He said it like it meant something. Like she meant something.
He patted his lap once. No smile. No warmth.
> "Come here."
Something in her legs moved before her mind caught up. Not obedience—habit. Fear. Hope. Hunger.
She walked slowly, each barefoot step against the cool floor feeling like a decision she couldn't undo.
When she reached him, he didn't touch her immediately. Just looked.
> "I've been waiting to use that name," he said. "Because you don't deserve to hear it until you understand what it means to me."
He guided her to sit in his lap—not roughly, not gently. Like positioning a glass sculpture. His arms folded around her waist, one hand trailing absently over the curve of her ribs, the other settling near her throat.
She didn't move. Couldn't.
Then—he leaned in.
His lips brushed her neck.
Not lustful. Not gentle. Not mocking.
But mirrored. Familiar.
A memory, dragged from the deepest pit of him—a year ago, her lips on his neck, smirking, manipulating, using softness as a weapon. He remembered how his skin burned then, how his will had shattered under her kiss.
Now it was his turn.
Arisa flinched—but didn't pull away. Her breath hitched. Eyes widened. Her body remembered the game, but the rules had changed.
She no longer controlled the board.
> "You used that kiss to make me your pawn," Riven murmured against her skin. "But I'm not yours anymore. You're mine."
She shivered.
Not from the cold.
From recognition.
From defeat.
From the terrifying weight of the collar at her neck—and the truth it enforced.
> "Say your name," he whispered.
Arisa opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Riven smiled. Not cruelly. But like someone who already knew the answer.
> "Good," he said. "You still fear it."
He didn't need her to say it. That would come later. What mattered now was control—control of language, control of memory, control of what she even allowed herself to be.
She was in his lap.
He had said her name.
He had reversed the kiss.
And for the first time, she felt like the weapon being disassembled.