Waking Up Tied To The Bed

Sighing, I shut the door behind me, though it hardly mattered. Privacy was a luxury no one in this house was allowed to keep.

Me especially.

I didn’t bother lighting a candle. I moved by instinct, shedding the suffocating dress, unfastening the corset until I could finally drag air into my lungs. My ribs ached. My thighs burned. Every inch of my skin felt bruised—some places from Shallow’s hands, others from nothing but fear.

In the bathroom, I filled the tub too hot, climbed in, and sank down until the water kissed my chin.

The heat should have soothed me. It didn’t.

My thoughts were a thousand snapping wires.

What was he thinking, interfering like that? Did Damien really believe I needed a saviour? Did he think I was too weak to survive this on my own?

And worse—why did some part of me wish he hadn’t stopped? That he’d said more? Done more?

Disgust crawled up my throat.

I wasn’t some starry-eyed fool. I didn’t need another man to claim me. I didn’t want the attention, the pity, or the hunger I’d seen in his eyes.

I just wanted to survive.

And yet…

His voice still echoed in my head.

You were never meant to belong to a man like him.

I closed my eyes, feeling something traitorous twist in my stomach.

No.

No.

I drained the bath, stepped into the shower, and scrubbed my skin until it stung. As if I could erase the memory. As if I could carve the shame out by force.

When I finally crawled into bed, my body was heavy with exhaustion.

I looked at the door.

I could lock it.

But that would only make it worse.

He hadn’t done more than slap me before, but tonight? He was drunk. Furious. Humiliated in front of everyone. He could do more, I don’t want him to start today. I just hope he doesn’t come.

Please, I thought, pressing my cheek to the pillow, please, just stay away from me tonight.

For a moment, I let myself imagine another life. A life where my husband was gentle. Where no one touched me without kindness. Where my skin didn’t flinch at the idea of a hand on my face.

For a moment, I let myself imagine another life.

A life where my husband was kind. Where no one touched me without cruelty. Where I could close my eyes without bracing for pain.

A life where my skin didn’t flinch at the idea of a hand on my face.

But then—Damien’s eyes.

They appeared behind my closed lids, clear as memory. That impossible gray, colder than winter, hotter than fire. The way he looked at me—like I was something precious and breakable, something he already claimed, whether I wanted it or not.

A shiver slipped down my spine.

I didn’t want to remember.

But the image refused to leave.

Our kiss on the balcony…

My breath caught.

I’d never been kissed like that before.

Not rushed. Not careless. Not cruel.

He kissed me like he was searching for something he’d lost. Like he needed to prove it was real. Like he already knew me—knew every hidden place I’d tried to bury.

I felt…

Wanted.

Cherished.

Possessed.

The memory burned through me, hot and cold all at once.

I squeezed my eyes shut tighter, as if I could erase the echo of his mouth on mine, the way his hands framed my face so carefully—like I was something fragile he’d never let break again.

Stop thinking about it.

I wasn’t allowed to feel this.

I wasn’t allowed to want anything from him.

And yet—

My heart refused to listen.

I’m such a fool.

My chest went tight, too full, too empty.

I hate this.

I hate this house.

I hate that some part of me—some pathetic, broken part—wants more.

My throat ached with unshed tears.

But I didn’t cry.

I was so tired.

Too tired to fight.

Sleep took me before I could remember how to resist it.

Sometime deep in the night, I felt it—a coarse touch dragging across the skin of my arm.

At first, I thought it was just a dream, another twisted memory playing on a loop. But as my mind clawed its way toward waking, a heaviness pressed down over me, like I was pinned beneath a sodden blanket I couldn’t throw off.

Something rough slid around my wrist.

A jolt shot up my arm, dragging me closer to consciousness. My breath stuttered. I tried to move, but my body felt slow, my limbs weighted and clumsy.

Then the second restraint pulled tight around my other wrist.

Panic began to flicker at the edge of the fog in my brain. My awareness sharpened in flashes—cold air on my skin, the oppressive darkness of the room, the horrible certainty that I was not alone.

My face felt strange. Stiff. Like something was pulling at my skin.

The sheets slipped lower, grazing over my breasts, down my stomach, pooling around my hips. A cold draft licked across my chest, tightening my nipples into hard, shivering peaks.

And then I knew—this was no dream.

My eyes snapped open.

A shape crouched between my legs. A silhouette, hulking and unmistakable.

Revulsion flooded my veins. My pulse spiked so fast it made me dizzy. I thrashed, or tried to—but my arms were anchored above my head, bound to the headboard.

I sucked in a desperate breath to scream.

Nothing came out.

Something pressed tight across my mouth—thick, suffocating.

My eyes rounded, wild and shining in the dark.

Tape.

There was tape over my mouth.

And whoever was in my bed came prepared, and I just realised. I’m in trouble.