Chapter 15
You know that feeling when the world slows down just enough for you to realize how completely screwed you are? Yeah. That was me. Not just mentally, but emotionally. Physically. Spiritually. Every piece of me felt… detached.
Like I’d floated out of my own skin and couldn’t quite find my way back.
There was no dramatic breakdown. No sobbing on the floor. No blood-curdling scream echoing through the walls. Just stillness, the kind that chokes you.
I hadn’t turned on the lights in days. The curtains stayed shut like they were shielding me from a world I no longer belonged to. My body ached in places I didn’t want to name. Every time I shifted, the rope burns around my wrists screamed at me.
I couldn’t raise my arms without wincing. My body was a patchwork of bruises and welts. Sitting upright felt like punishment. I knew he was outside the door again before I heard the knock.
There was a rhythm to his presence now like the house adjusted to his rage before he even spoke.
I sat stiff on the edge of the bed, still bruised, still burning when the door clicked open and Pierce stepped in with a tray. He didn’t say anything, just walked to the table and set it down too carefully.
Something was off, I could feel it. His eyes were darker than usual, jaw locked so tight I could practically hear his teeth grind.
“I brought you food,” he said finally. I didn’t look up at him, just kept looking in front of me. “You haven’t eaten in three days.”
I didn’t answer even then. He walked over to me slowly, deliberately and crouched down, trying to find my eyes with his. Were those dark bags under his eye always there?
“Lyra.” My name came out rough. Controlled, but barely. “Eat your food.”
I turned my face away from him. “Fuck off.”
His hands curled into fists at his sides. “You’re making this harder than it has to be.”
“Oh, really?” I met his gaze now, fire in my own. “You tied me to a bed, whipped me like I’m your damn cattle, and now you want to play nurse?”
His jaw ticked. “You need strength and energy to recover. You’re in pain—”
“Because of who, I’m curious.” Pierce stood so fast that my jaw almost met the tip of his head.
“Fine,” he snapped. Then grabbed the tray with eggs, fruits, soup still steaming and with one violent move he threw it all at the nearest wall.
Glass shattered. Soup spilled down the surface. The crash rang in my ears like a gunshot.
“Want to starve? Starve then,” he growled. And then, without another word, he stormed out slamming the door so hard the walls trembled.
Further food trays came and went untouched. The guards knocked once, left them by the door like I was some wild animal they didn’t dare disturb.
I didn’t care, I wasn’t hungry. I was… hollow. The kind of hollow that made swallowing water feel like a betrayal. Like giving in. And then there was the bond.
The stupid, cursed mate bond that refused to let me rest.
Being away from him hurt, and not in a poetic way. My chest might actually collapse in on itself, my own skin burned hot and cold, like the warmth in me was slowly draining. My bones ached and my head unstoppably pounded.
This damned mark on my neck—yet almost fully healed—can’t stop pulsing wildly.
And sometimes, God help me, at those agonized moments of permanent pain, I missed him being near me. Missed how his touch, his lips let all the pain go away. But then I remembered the whip. The rope. The way his voice sounded when he promised to break me.
No. Fuck it. I didn’t miss him. I missed who I thought he might have become.
Outside the door, I heard him pacing. Day and night. Sometimes shouting, sometimes punching some shit all around the house. I heard the glass shatter more than once and one night I swear I heard a gunshot.
He never came in after offering me food.
At first, I thought it was guilt. Maybe he realized what he’d done. Then I thought maybe he was scared of what he’d see if he did. But Pierce wasn’t afraid, Pierce didn’t show remorse. So what the hell was he waiting for?
The first note showed up on day five. Folded neatly beside the tray. Black ink, sharp and clean: ‘Come out. Just talk.’
I stared at it until the corners curled. Then tore it in half. But they kept coming. Some just said my name: ‘Lyra’.
One just said: ‘I hate this’.
I didn’t answer one of them. But the worst part? I started waiting for them.
Each morning, my ears tuned to the sound of paper sliding against the floor. I hated myself for it. But I counted the notes. Six by the end of the week. And then, on the seventh day, came the knock.
“Just hear me out,” his voice was low, not quite pleading but not the usual steel, either. “One night, one dinner. No games, no tricks. No punishment if you try to run. Though I’m asking you not to.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t dare to let out a single word from my mouth. Five minutes of silence before he spoke again. “You set the terms. I’ll follow them.”
And that… made me sit up. Not because he said it. For a split second, I believed him. I wrote back on a torn envelope. My hand trembled like I hadn’t written in years:
‘No touching unless I say. Armed guards stay in sight. No sedatives. No threats. No power plays. We come back here when I say so.’
I slipped it under the door. A minute later, a tray returned. On top, a folded note is there. There’s only one word written there: ‘Agreed’.
* * *
When I woke, the dress was already there.
Laid out at the foot of the bed with clinical precision—black silk, backless, elegant in a way that made my skin crawl. Next to it, a box with matching heels, subtle perfume, and a handwritten note that said only: ‘Tonight. 8PM.’
I almost didn’t wear it. Almost tore it apart just to prove I still could. But I didn’t. I got ready and at 7:35 Pierce’s driver knocked once, said nothing, and led me to the car.
The rooftop was quiet when I stepped out. Warm string lights hung overhead, swaying lazily with the wind. Somewhere, soft jazz drifted from hidden speakers. The city stretched out in every direction—alive and glowing, so indifferent to the chaos in my chest.
For a second, just one second, I felt human again.
Pierce was already there. Stood at the far edge of the terrace, hands in his pockets, dressed in black. His shirt was rolled at the sleeves, collar open, hair still damp like he’d actually tried.
He looked up at the sound of my steps, and something about the tension in his shoulders softened. “I didn’t think you’d come,” he said quietly.
“I almost didn’t.” I stayed near the entrance. “Still debating if I should’ve.”
He nodded once, as if he agreed. “You look…” He paused. “Better. Beautiful too.”
I sat across from him and stared at the empty plate. “I don’t feel better.”
