The restraints clicked into place—soft leather against bare skin, buckled tight around her wrists and ankles. Not rough. Not cruel. But firm.
That made it worse.
Arisa lay silent beneath the dim, sterile lights of the bedroom—his bedroom. The same velvet sheets. The same clean scent. The same man seated beside her with that unreadable, careful expression.
Riven adjusted the last strap. The buckle rested over the fragile curve of her ankle. His fingers lingered—not possessive, not kind—just present. Like a craftsman checking his work.
She blinked up at him slowly, confusion threading through the fog in her head. She wasn't screaming. She wasn't thrashing. That part of her was long gone.
"Wait... what is this?" Her voice barely broke above a whisper. Dry. Uneven.
Riven didn't answer. Not yet.
Instead, he reached into the bedside drawer and pulled out a small silver case. Sleek. Sealed. He clicked it open, revealing a prefilled syringe cradled in black velvet.
Arisa's breath caught. Her fingers twitched against the straps.
"No... please," she murmured, a tremor slipping into her tone. "I—I'll listen. I won't... you don't have to do this."
Still, no words from him. Only precision.
He held the syringe up to the light, inspecting it.
"You remember the collar, don't you?" he said quietly, finally breaking the silence. "That wasn't punishment. It was structure."
He turned to her again, eyes sharp.
"This is mercy."
She flinched as he cleaned a spot on her neck with alcohol. The scent stung her nostrils. Her head shook faintly from side to side, more instinct than resistance.
"No. Not there. Please... not the neck..."
Her voice cracked.
Riven's hand cupped her chin, gently stilling her. He didn't press hard. Didn't force. Just guided.
"Shh," he whispered. "This won't hurt."
The needle slid in smoothly. A single puncture. No resistance.
Her body jerked once, legs pulling taut against the straps. Then stillness.
The drug took hold fast. Not instant unconsciousness—that wasn't the point. This one was subtler. Fog. Obedience. A soft collapse.
Her breathing grew shallow. Her eyes dilated.
She made a soft, helpless sound. Half-whimper, half-sob.
And then—tears. One single tear sliding from the corner of her eye to her temple, soaking into his pillow.
Riven wiped it away with the back of his finger.
"You're not broken," he said, tone almost reflective. "Just... misplaced."
He sat beside her, watching.
Not with hunger.
With study.
Like a scientist.
Like an artist.
Arisa swallowed hard, blinking slowly. The world felt distant. Her fingers tingled. She could feel the straps. She could feel him watching.
But not herself.
Not fully.
And still, somehow, she whispered: "I can be good..."
He leaned forward.
"You already are, Arisa."
The name cut deeper than the needle.
She shivered.
Then fell quiet.
And the room held its breath with her.
Arisa woke to the sharp sting of ammonia flooding her nostrils. Her body jerked violently against the restraints, lungs seizing as the chemical burned through the drug-induced fog.
A hand gripped her jaw, forcing her head to the side.
"Breathe."
Riven's voice. Calm. Unmoved.
She gasped, choking on air, vision swimming. The straps held her down with terrifying efficiency—not tight enough to bruise, but unyielding. His thumb pressed against her pulse point, monitoring the frantic flutter beneath her skin.
> "Too fast."
A click. The restraints at her wrists released.
She didn't move.
Couldn't.
Her arms felt leaden, her fingers numb. The ghost of the syringe's bite still lingered at her neck.
Riven leaned over her, blocking the light. His expression was clinical, assessing.
> "You were out for seventeen minutes. Your vitals stabilized at the six-minute mark."
A pause.
"Do you remember what I told you?"
Her lips parted. Dry. Stiff.
"Mercy," she whispered.
The corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. A notation.
"Good."
He reached for her ankle strap. The buckle gave way with a soft *snick*.
"Now sit up."
Arisa's muscles trembled as she pushed herself upright. The room tilted. She caught herself on the edge of the bed, knuckles whitening.
Riven watched.
Waiting.
Testing.
She swallowed the bile rising in her throat.
"Look at me."
Her gaze lifted—slow, unsteady.
His fingers brushed her cheek, catching a stray tear she hadn't realized had fallen. He examined it, thoughtful.
"You're afraid."
Not a question.
A confirmation.
Her breath hitched.
"But not of pain." His thumb traced the edge of her lower lip. "You're afraid of how much you need this."
The words slithered under her skin.
A lie.
Had to be.
Yet her pulse betrayed her, thundering where his fingers still rested against her neck.
Riven's eyes darkened.
"Tomorrow," he murmured, "we correct that."
He stood, turning toward the door.
"Sleep, Arisa."
A command.
A threat.
The collar hummed to life against her throat.
And the world—
—went black.