CHAPTER SEVEN
Katrina's POV
The door slammed shut behind us with a force that made the entire room tremble.
Before I could even understand what was happening, William's hand shoved against my shoulder, and my body hit the bed with a soft, helpless thud.
The air left my lungs.
For a moment, all I could hear was the frantic pounding of my heartbeat echoing in my ears. I swallowed hard, my throat dry, my chest aching as I tried to sit up. The bedsheets beneath me were soft — painfully soft — like they mocked how violently I had just been thrown there.
He didn't say a word. Not at first.
He simply stood there, his breathing uneven, his jaw tight as he stalked toward the wardrobe on the far end of the room. Every step he took sounded heavier than it should have, echoing through the silence like the countdown to something I wasn't ready for.
I couldn't move. My body wouldn't let me. Fear had a way of freezing everything — thoughts, voice, even the simple act of blinking. My palms pressed into the sheets, clutching them tightly as he reached for the wardrobe handle.
The sound of it swinging open made me flinch.
He turned slowly, and when his eyes met mine, I almost wished he hadn't. The anger in them wasn't just fire — it was something deeper. Something darker.
"How do you feel?" he asked finally.
His tone startled me. It wasn't cold. It wasn't angry. It was calm — too calm, almost soothing. But I could feel it — that calm was a mask, something stretched thin over a storm that was barely being contained.
I blinked, unable to speak for a second. My voice came out trembling. "I… I'm fine."
He raised a brow, closing the wardrobe halfway. "Fine?"
I nodded, forcing a small, nervous smile that didn't last.
His lips curved — not in amusement, but in disbelief. "You look rather happy to me, Katrina. Happier than fine."
The way he said it made my stomach twist.
I froze, my smile fading instantly. He was watching me — not just my face but every movement, every tiny breath. I could feel the suspicion in his gaze, the tension that filled the space between us like invisible smoke.
My fingers dug into the sheets. "I'm not...I mean, I wasn't..."
He turned fully then, and my words died in my throat.
In his hand, leather cuffs, black rope and whip dangled. The sight of it made my stomach drop. My breath caught somewhere between my ribs as he pulled out another and placed it on the dresser.
He wasn't saying anything, but the message was clear.
I could see it in his face — that he was no longer the man I'd known as a child. The boy who used to walk me home, who used to smile faintly when I teased him. That version of him had burned away long ago, and what stood before me now was someone else entirely. Someone who lived and breathed control.
"William…" I whispered, my voice small, shaky.
He didn't respond.
He only closed the wardrobe slowly, the sound of the wood creaking against its hinges slicing through the silence. Then, with that same eerie calm, he turned toward me again.
"You must enjoy this," he said finally, his tone deadly quiet.
I blinked, confused. "What?"
"Seeing me helpless. Seeing me in pain." His jaw tightened, his voice rising slightly. "That's what you like, isn't it? You must have enjoyed standing there — watching me lose control because of him.
My heart skipped a beat. "No..."
He took a step forward. "Don't lie to me."
"I'm not.."
"Yes, you are!"
The sudden roar of his voice made me flinch backward. He advanced, each step bringing him closer, his words sharp enough to cut. "You think I didn't notice? The way you looked at him? The way your body reacted when he touched you?"
My lips trembled. "That's not..."
He slammed his fist into the wall beside me, and I yelped. His eyes burned with something between rage and hurt. "You wanted him, didn't you? Even when you stood there beside me — you wanted him.
Tears welled in my eyes. I shook my head frantically. "I didn't! I don't— I don't want Wilson!"
"Liar!"
His hand shot forward, gripping my neck.
I gasped, my hands instinctively going up to his wrist. The pressure wasn't enough to choke, but it was enough to make my skin burn. My back hit the wall as he pinned me there, his breath hot and uneven against my cheek.
"William," I choked out. "Please— you're hurting me."
His grip tightened slightly, his jaw flexing. "Good," he hissed. "Maybe then you'll start telling the truth."
Tears spilled down my cheeks. I shook my head again, the desperation breaking through my voice. "I'm not lying, I swear. I don't want him, I don't even know him—"
Something flickered in his eyes then — not anger, but something close to pain. For a second, his grip loosened, but the next, his hand released me completely, only for him to shove me backward.
I stumbled and fell onto the bed, my breath catching as I landed.
The world tilted for a moment. My heart raced so fast I could hear it in my ears.
He stood over me, breathing heavily. The muscles in his jaw twitched as if he was fighting something inside himself — rage, jealousy, hurt, I couldn't tell which.
I sat up slowly, whimpering, inching back until my back hit the headboard. My body trembled uncontrollably, every nerve in me screaming to run, but my legs refused to move.
He didn't move right away. He just stared at me — silent, unreadable — before walking closer and kneeling on the bed.
I held my breath as his hands reached for me again.
I flinched, but he didn't hit me this time. He grabbed my wrists — firm but not violent — and raised them above my head, pressing them against the pillows.
"William…" My voice cracked.
He didn't answer. His gaze was hard, burning with a strange mix of fury and longing. "You need to learn, Katrina," he whispered, his voice trembling slightly now. "You need to learn who you belong to."
My heart ached at those words.
There was pain behind them — the kind that came from somewhere deep, old, and wounded. His hand trembled slightly where it held mine, and for the first time that night, I realized this wasn't just about anger. It was about fear.
He was scared.
Of losing me. Of losing control. Of the one thing he couldn't manipulate — emotion.
And I was scared too — of him, of what he was becoming, of what we were both turning into inside this house that swallowed every bit of light.
"I don't want Wilson," I whispered again, tears streaming down my face. "I only want to be safe."
He stared at me for a long time, breathing hard, his jaw clenching.
Then he finally let go of my wrists, standing abruptly.
The silence that followed was deafening.
He turned away, his hands sliding into his hair, his breath uneven. "You drive me insane," he muttered under his breath. "Every time you look at me like that, every time you speak — I lose control."
I sat there, frozen, not knowing whether to speak or stay silent. My body still trembled, but my mind — my mind was louder than ever.
He wasn't just angry. He was broken.
And somehow, so was I.
When he finally looked back at me, the fire in his eyes was gone, replaced with something hollow. "Get some rest," he said quietly. "You'll need it."
Then he turned and walked toward the door.
But before he left, he paused — hand on the handle, voice barely audible. "Don't ever make me doubt you again."
The door closed softly behind him.
And just like that, the storm was over — but its echoes stayed inside me, heavy and cold
I sat there for a long time, my body shaking, my fingers tracing the faint red marks on my wrist where he had held me. The room felt too quiet, too big, like it was swallowing me whole.
I curled up slowly, pressing my face into the pillow, trying to steady my breathing.
But no matter how hard I tried, his voice lingered in my head — his anger, his pain, his broken whisper.
And I wasn't sure which of us was truly trapped — him, or me.