Chapter 4 #2
I cup his jaw.
My thumb drags under his eye, catching the breath he let slip as a tear.
“You don’t have to ask.” His whole body trembles beneath my touch. “I’ll stay,” I breathe.
His chest shudders.
His throat bobs.
His hands drop the chain, sliding up to grip my waist like he’s terrified I’ll vanish if he lets go.
“You’ll hate me when you know all of it.”
“Tell me.”
His breath fractures.
His pulse stutters.
“He didn’t just watch.” His voice is almost gone now. “He touched.”
His hands tighten on me.
“He made me touch.”
My ribs collapse.
“He told me it was worship.” His jaw shakes. “He told me I was good when I didn’t cry. He told me I was perfect when I begged him not to stop.”
A sob punches out of him.
His eyes squeeze shut.
His whole body folds like he’s going to shatter under the weight of remembering.
“He told me love felt like that.”
My throat burns.
He drags his hands into my hair, pressing his forehead to mine, his breath desperate, his voice breaking in pieces.
“I lock you down because I don’t know another way to keep you.”
“I want to be kept,” I whisper, tears burning. His breath catches. “I want you to cage me.”
His eyes open, wet, wrecked. “Why?”
“Because I think when you cage me, you’re caging yourself, too.” I press my lips to his, soft, slow, real. “And I don’t want you to leave, Damien.”
His chest cracks.
His hands fist in my hair, dragging me closer.
“I won’t leave.” His mouth crushes mine, desperate, ruined, feral. “I’ll never leave.”
His lips bruise me.
His body cages me.
His breath shudders.
And for the first time, I think he believes me.
His breath drags rough against my temple, his grip bruising my waist like he’s still trying to anchor himself to the moment, to me, to this.
His thumb brushes over the small, faint scar on my ribs—the one I always thought was nothing. A scratch from childhood. A mark I couldn’t remember getting.
His hand lingers there longer than usual.
Too long.
Like he knows something about it.
Like he’s seen it before.
His breath catches, but he doesn’t speak.
He presses his lips to the scar, soft, deliberate.
His voice is almost gone when he finally whispers, “I should’ve taken you sooner.”
My throat tightens.
I should ask what he means.
But something inside me won’t let me.
Something inside me whispers that maybe—maybe—he’s not talking about the cage.
Maybe he’s not talking about now.
When I open my mouth, the question dies because his hands tighten, his breath breaks, his lips press against my temple like he’s sorry for something I don’t remember.
I don’t ask because I think some part of me already knows I won’t survive the answer.
His lips stay pressed to my temple, like he’s not ready to let me go.
Like if he lets go, I’ll see something I’m not supposed to.
The chain rattles when I shift in his lap, the cold weight reminding me I’m still locked here.
Still his.
Still where he wants me.
His thumb drags over that scar again.
Slow.
Intentional.
His breath hitches.
But he doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t explain.
And I don’t push.
Not yet.
Because I can feel it—There’s a thread here I’m not supposed to pull.
A door I’m not ready to open.
His hands slide up, threading through my hair, his grip tightening like he’s still afraid I’ll vanish.
Like I’ve ever belonged anywhere else.
“You’ll stay.”
His voice is lower now.
Rougher.
“Yes.”
“You’ll beg for me.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll never ask about the things I’ve buried.”
My throat tightens.
I say it anyway.
I think I mean it.
I think I’m already too far gone.
“Yes.”
His body shudders.
His hands cage me tighter.
His lips drag across my cheek, my jaw, my throat.
His voice softens into something I’ve never heard from him before.
Something that almost sounds like a memory.
“I heard you cry once,” he whispers against my skin.
I freeze.
His breath is steady now, like he’s somewhere else.
“I don’t know if you remember.” His thumb grazes that scar again. “You used to cry when you prayed.”
A sharp pulse cracks through my ribs.
“I—” My throat stumbles. “I don’t— I don’t remember—”
His lips press to the corner of my mouth.
“That’s okay,” he breathes, like it’s a secret, like it’s a lie. “You don’t have to.”
His grip tightens on my jaw, dragging my gaze back to his.
His eyes are steady now.
Not manic.
Not afraid.
Like he’s already rewritten the past for both of us.
“You’re mine now,” he says, his breath stealing what’s left of mine. “Only mine.”
And the words fall from me like they always do.
“I’m yours.”
His smile is slow.
Sharp.
Possessive.
“You’ve always been.”
The chain drags across the floor as he pulls me closer.
The metal cold, his hands warm, his mouth filthy and I don’t know what’s real anymore.
I don’t know when he started caging me.
I don’t know if I’ve always been inside it.
I know I don’t want to leave.
I know I’d beg him to lock me tighter.
I know I’d choose the chain every time.
Even if he’s already stitched me into a story I don’t remember living.
His thumb brushes the corner of my mouth like he’s wiping something away that isn’t there.
His breathing’s gone strange again.
Slower.
Quieter.
Almost like he’s waiting to hear someone else’s footsteps behind him.
“You used to cry when you prayed,” he says again, like he’s stuck in a loop. My pulse skips. “You told me to count with you.”
His grip on my jaw tightens.
His eyes flick to mine—but I don’t think he’s really looking at me.
“You were always better at counting,” he murmurs.
“You never lost track.”
A cold knot forms in my chest.
His thumb taps the faint scar on my ribs.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“You kept me quiet when I was bad.”
His words don’t make sense.
I don’t remember this.
I don’t remember him but he says it like I was there.
Like I was with him.
“You told me I wasn’t allowed to scream,” he breathes, his voice fracturing, his grip trembling. “You said it would ruin the prayer.”
My stomach knots.
His smile is soft.
Off.
“You always remembered the songs better than me.” His thumb drags under my lip like he’s following the edge of something only he can see. “I liked it when you braided my hair.”
My throat goes dry.
My heart stumbles.
“Damien—” I whisper.
His breath sharpens like he’s just realised where he is.
Like he’s realising I’m here now.
“You don’t remember, do you?”
His words land like a bruise.
“I—”
I don’t know what to say because none of this makes sense.
He tilts his head, his thumb still pressing under my lip, his other hand dragging up the chain, coiling the cold metal around his fist.
“I used to tell you I’d protect you.” His smile sharpens, but it’s hollow. “And you used to tell me I was a liar.”
The air thickens.
His voice softens to something too careful.
“You’re not supposed to remember yet.” His thumb taps my bottom lip. “Maybe you never will.”
I shake my head.
“I don’t—”
“That’s okay.”
His breath drags across my cheek, his grip tightening like he’s afraid I’ll pull away from something I don’t even understand.
“I remember enough for both of us.” His mouth drags over my throat, his breath sinking into my skin like a bruise. “You used to beg me to stay quiet.”
His words are a soft fracture against my pulse.
“You used to say he’d take me if I didn’t.”
My legs go weak.
He leans closer, his hand tightening in my hair.
“Or maybe I begged you.” His laugh is hollow. “Maybe I begged you not to leave me with him.”
His thumb drags across my lip again, slower this time, like he’s savouring the shape of something he’s convinced belongs to him.
“You always said I was the better liar.” His voice dips, low, soft, cruel. “But I think you lied better.”
His forehead presses to mine.
His next breath breaks.
“I think you promised to stay.” His hands cage me tighter, his voice splintering. “You promised you wouldn’t let him take me.”
His pulse thunders against my ribs.
“But you didn’t stay.”
The floor caves under me.
I shake my head.
I don’t remember.
I don’t know what he’s saying.
He pulls back, his thumb tapping my lip once more, his eyes sharp, wild, gone.
“Maybe you forgot.” His smile cracks. “Maybe I made you forget.”
His grip softens.
His lips brush my temple.
“That’s okay,” he whispers. “You remember now.”
And I don’t know if he’s talking to me—Or to someone else.
His lips graze my temple like it’s a promise, like it’s a memory, like it’s something we both lived but only he remembers.
“You remember now,” he breathes again, softer this time, like he’s not even saying it to me.
My throat closes.
“I don’t—I don’t remember that—” I stammer, the words catching sharp in my ribs.“I don’t remember you.”
His thumb drags under my lip, slow, filthy, like I should already know this.
Like I should already know him.
“You always forget.”
His voice is soft.
Too soft.
The kind of soft that cuts.
“You forget and I wait.” His breath trembles against my cheek. “I wait for you to come back.”
I shake my head.
“I don’t—I never left—”
“You did.” His grip tightens. “You always leave.” His eyes flick to mine, sharp, wild, distant. “You left me with him.”
My stomach caves.
His hand in my hair pulls tighter, not cruel, but desperate.
Like if he lets go, the memory will go with me.
“You told me to be quiet.” His voice fractures. “You told me to close my eyes.”
“You told me not to cry.”
My breath shakes.
“I didn’t—”
“You did.”
His thumb presses against my lips.
“You promised you wouldn’t let him take me.” His breath stutters. “But you didn’t stay.”
The floor feels too far away.
The walls are pressing too close.
The chain drags cold against my ankle, my skin raw where the cuff rubs, but I can’t move.
Because what if he’s not lying?
What if I was there?
What if I don’t remember?
What if I already broke him once?
His thumb presses harder against my lips until they part, until I taste the salt of his sweat, until I taste something I’m not supposed to.