"Lie!"
His command was absolute, a blade that allowed no room for misinterpretation. He stepped back, and I watched—frozen—as his hands moved to his shirt. Buttons gave way. The fabric parted. And there it was.
His chest. Beautiful. Sculpted. And on his right shoulder, the eagle tattoo I remembered from that night against the concrete wall. Dark ink. Sharp lines. A predator rendered in permanent black.
But wait.
Lie. How does he want me to lie? What does that even mean? I don't know. I don't know which way, what position, what words—
My mind splintered. I couldn't think.
So I chose the only language left to me.
I lay down.
My body pressed flat against the cold, unforgiving wood. My breasts—still slick with milk—flattened beneath me, the wetness making my skin slide against the polished grain. My eyes screwed shut. My forehead touched the table like a penitent at an altar.
A beat of silence.
Then his voice, lower now. Not angry. Almost… amused.
"I didn't mean that way."
