The morning unfurled in a suffocating silence, Vincent's departure a phantom absence that left the room cloaked in a chilling void. The air hung heavy, thick with the lingering scent of whiskey and the faint, metallic tang of fear. Elena stirred, her body a tapestry of aching bruises, each pulse a cruel echo of the intimacy that had ravaged her the night before.
Her limbs felt leaden, as though the weight of his touch had seeped into her bones, anchoring her to the rumpled sheets. Her eyelids fluttered open, heavy with exhaustion, revealing a world blurred by unshed tears and a haze of shame.
The cold air kissed her bare skin, raising goosebumps along her arms, while a damp, unfamiliar wetness clung to her thighs—a silent, humiliating testament to the violation of her innocence.
Naked and trembling, she lay amidst the tangled linens, the faint sliver of light from the grime-streaked window casting ghostly patterns across her bruised form, illuminating the faint red marks that marred her wrists.
For a moment, she lay still, her breath shallow, as if moving might shatter the fragile barrier between memory and reality. Then, like a tidal wave breaching a dam, the memories crashed over her. Vincent's relentless hands, calloused yet deliberate, had roamed her body with a fervor that brooked no resistance.
His lips, hot and unyielding, had branded her with a possession that stole her breath, each kiss a chain forging her captivity. The three hours had stretched into an eternity, a nightmare etched into her flesh.
She recalled the way he had claimed her virginity—not with tenderness, but with a savage intensity that left her gasping, his whispers of ownership mingling with the creak of the bedframe. His eyes, dark as obsidian, had gleamed with triumph as he pinned her beneath him, his weight a suffocating promise of dominion.
The memory of his touch lingered, a phantom ache that made her skin crawl even now, her body betraying her with a shiver she couldn't suppress.
Tears welled, spilling down her cheeks in silent rivulets, her chest heaving with hiccups that broke the stillness.
"Why?"
she whispered, her voice a broken lament lost in the shadows.
"Why am I always so unlucky? Why, God, why?"
The words tumbled out, raw and unfiltered, a prayer to a deity she feared had abandoned her. Her hands clutched the sheet, pulling it tighter against her trembling form as if it could shield her from the ghosts of the night before. The room seemed to close in, the walls whispering with the echoes of his laughter, his taunts
—"You're mine now, my love"—replaying in her mind like a cruel refrain.
A soft creak at the door jolted her from her despair, a sound that sliced through the oppressive quiet like a blade. Her heart lurched, a frantic rhythm against her ribs, as the heavy wood swung open. A woman stepped inside—stern-faced, her eyes averted as if the sight of Elena's vulnerability was a burden she dared not bear. She carried a tray laden with bread, a steaming bowl of broth, and a bundle of clothes, her movements mechanical, devoid of warmth.
"Vincent—Master—said to give this to you," she intoned, her voice flat, a monotone that carried the weight of obedience.
"He insists you eat."
Without another word, she turned, her footsteps echoing on the stone floor, and retreated, the lock clicking into place with a finality that reverberated in Elena's chest. The sound was a shackle, a reminder of her imprisonment, and she stared at the closed door, her breath hitching.
Food for her? A cruel jest, she thought, her lips curling into a bitter grimace. Was this sustenance meant to keep her alive, only to endure more torment at his hands? The tray sat on a small table, its contents a mockery of care in this gilded cage. Her gaze drifted to the clothes—a simple dress, dark and unadorned, as if to erase the remnants of her former self.
Slowly, she rose, her legs unsteady beneath her, the sheet slipping slightly to reveal the bruises that bloomed like shadows across her skin. She clutched it tighter, a fragile shield against the cold and the memories, and shuffled toward the narrow bathroom adjacent to the room.
The shower beckoned, a sanctuary of sorts, its tiled walls promising a fleeting escape. She stepped inside, the sheet falling away as the first drops of water cascaded over her, tepid and cleansing. The spray stung against her tender flesh, washing away the dampness that clung to her thighs, but it could not erase the imprint of his touch.
Her hands trembled as she scrubbed, her sobs mingling with the hiss of the water, each tear a release and a plea. She remembered the way his fingers had traced her spine, the way his breath had scorched her neck, the way he had murmured her name—Elena—like a prayer or a curse.
The intimacy had been a battlefield, her resistance crumbling under the weight of his desire, and now she stood, broken yet defiant, beneath the relentless stream.
As the water pooled at her feet, carrying away the evidence of the night, a shadow of resolve flickered within her. She would not let this define her, not entirely. Yet, as she reached for the soap, a faint sound pierced the steam—a soft scrape, like the turn of a key.
Her heart stopped, her breath catching in her throat. The bathroom door creaked open, and through the frosted glass, a silhouette emerged—tall, imposing, unmistakably Vincent. His voice, low and velvet-smooth, slithered into the room.
"Did you think you could wash me away so easily, my love?"
The bathroom door creaked shut behind her, the frosted glass blurring the silhouette of Vincent's potential return as Elena's whispered plea—
"No, no, Vincent, don't come now"
---dissolved into the steam-filled air. Her heart thudded a frantic rhythm, a fleeting reprieve granted by his absence, and she turned back to the task of reclaiming her shattered sense of self. The tepid water cascaded over her bruised skin, each droplet a stinging caress against the tender marks left by his relentless hands.
She scrubbed with a fervor bordering on desperation, the soap's faint lavender scent a fragile shield against the memory of his touch—calloused fingers tracing the curve of her spine, his breath a scorching brand against her neck, his lips a relentless conqueror claiming her innocence.
The dampness that clung to her thighs, a humiliating remnant of the night's torment, began to wash away, but the phantom ache of his possession lingered, a shadow etched into her soul. For long minutes, she stood beneath the spray, her hands trembling as they roamed her body, each stroke a silent rebellion against the three hours that had stretched into an eternity of nightmare.
Stepping out, she wrapped a threadbare towel around her shivering form, the fabric barely shielding her bruised thighs and the faint red welts that marred her wrists. The mirror reflected a stranger—eyes hollow, cheeks streaked with the remnants of tears
—before she turned away, unable to face the evidence of her violation. She padded back into the room, her bare feet silent against the icy stone floor, the air thick with the musty scent of confinement.
Her gaze fell upon the dress Vincent had sent—a scandalous scrap of dark fabric, its hem so short it barely grazed mid-thigh, its purpose a cruel taunt. A shiver of dread coursed through her; he had chosen it deliberately, a garment designed to strip away her dignity, to remind her of his unyielding dominion over her body and spirit.
The room, barren save for the sagging bed and the grime-streaked window, closed in like a prison cell, its shadows whispering of her captivity, the silence a mocking companion to her despair.
Tears gathered, hot and unrelenting, spilling down her cheeks as she sank to her knees, her voice breaking into a sob.
"Why me? Why this endless torment?"
she murmured, her words a fragile lament lost in the gloom. The weight of her predicament pressed against her chest, a suffocating reminder of the night before—Vincent's hands pinning her wrists, his lips crashing against hers with a hunger that stole her breath, his body a wall of heat and muscle that had claimed her virginity with a savage intensity.
The memory replayed in vivid detail: his whispers of ownership,
"You're mine now, my love,"
mingling with the creak of the bedframe, his eyes gleaming with triumph as he marked her as his own. Her hands clutched the towel tighter, a flimsy barrier against the cold and the ghosts that haunted her.
Her gaze darted to the small window, a sliver of hope amidst the oppressive darkness. With a surge of desperation, she stumbled to her feet, her legs trembling beneath her, and ran to it. Her fists pounded against the glass, the sound a hollow echo in the vast emptiness.
"Anyone there? Please, help! I'm a hostage—please, hello!"
she screamed, her voice raw and ragged, rising to a crescendo of anguish that reverberated off the stone walls. For an hour, she shouted, her cries a symphony of desperation, her throat growing hoarse as she pressed her face against the cold pane, searching for any sign of salvation.
But the silence beyond the glass was a cruel void, offering no response, no mercy. Exhausted, her body slumped to the floor, the towel her only shield against the biting chill. She wept until her eyes burned, her sobs a lament to a fate she couldn't escape.
"Why, God, why?" she whispered, her voice fading into a whisper as sleep claimed her, her form curling against the unforgiving stone, the dampness of her tears mingling with the cold.
In the depths of her dreams, a flashback unfurled—a memory of innocence lost to the shadow of Vincent. She had grown up in the tranquil village of San Isidro, where the fields stretched golden under the sun, their whispers a lullaby to her childhood. Raised by her widowed mother, Mariana, Elena's early years had been shaped by loss—her father had died when she was a mere child, a tragedy that had hardened Mariana's hands as she toiled in the fields, her every effort a testament to her love.
A brilliant student, Elena had earned a coveted scholarship to Urbania University, a prestigious institution nestled in the heart of the bustling city she feared. Mariana's gentle persuasion—
"You deserve this, mi hija, this chance to rise"—
had convinced her, her mother's weathered face alight with pride as they packed Elena's belongings. With formalities complete, Elena stepped into her new life, her heart a mixture of hope and trepidation.