His hand rose, capturing my jaw and tilting my face up. My eyes were dragged to meet his—those calm, pitiless green oceans. His lips came close, a breath away from mine, holding in a suspended, terrible almost.
"The next time you waste my time," he whispered, the words cool against my skin, "my punishment will not be light."
Then his hand dropped. And he walked out.
The polished marble floor seemed to swallow the sound of his departing footsteps.
Then, silence. A thick, smothering silence broken only by the frantic drum of my own heart.
For one dizzying second, it felt like freedom. He had commanded the ultimate humiliation… and then simply left. No final violation, no twisted consummation. Just cold, clinical instruction followed by abandonment in the aftermath.
Is this his game? Is he worse than I thought?
