alex

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“Did you so much as think I would let you away with that sort of behaviour?”

You promised yourself you wouldn’t pull a stunt this ambitious again.

You could say it was curiosity, but ultimately, it was desperation.

“I’m sorry.”

Your words fell flat as they echoed throughout the bedroom, the tension in the air so thick that not even a knife could sever it.

Henry simply chuckled in reply, one that vibrated in his chest with sickly venom.

Then, silence. Your eyes were still glued to the floorboards, counting each line of detail that had been etched into the wood over the years.

It was the only thing preventing the sheer panic building up within you from spilling over.

You knew he was getting closer, not because you could hear him, no—he was a nimble thing despite his towering height, moving like a predator stalking its prey in the night.

“Look at me while I’m talking to you.”

His tone had shifted into something akin to a parent scolding a child.

It made you shift on your heels, shoulder muscles stiffening as you rolled them back, lifting your head at the same time.

There wasn’t a time when you looked into his eyes and didn’t witness a man failed by the world around him.

Each flicker was so complex that not even the most trained in human psychology could pick them apart.

“What is the one rule I have while you’re under my roof?”

You felt your mouth go dry, watching his lips form into a thin line. “Never go into the woods.”

“Never go into the woods,” Henry repeated through gritted teeth, linking his hands behind his back as he studied you.

“But—“ you tended to think before you spoke. A fatal flaw when dealing with someone as short-tempered as Henry. You pursed your lips, stopping yourself.

Henry stalked closer as you took one step back, heels hitting the skirting board.

You knew better than to run; that’s what got you here in the first place.

“Go ahead.” He goaded, back straight and demeanour stone. “I want to hear what fantastical excuse you have this time.”

The heels of his shoes scuffed off the floor as he started to slowly pace back and forth in front of you, his hand coming up to his face for a moment to adjust his glasses as they slid off his nose.

“I just wanted to go on a walk, the sun was out today and—“

He raised his hand to stop you, head tilting. That familiar sense of doom started collecting in your gut as you caught eye contact with him again.

“We both know that’s not the truth, sweetheart.” His voice had gotten dangerously low, you knew then his patience was already thin to begin with.

“Henry-“

“You know how I feel about you lying to me.”

“I’m not lying!”

“Enough.” He raised his voice, the sound making you tremble. That patience was about to snap. “Tell me the true reason.”

Your expression faltered at his accusation, brows knitting together as you questioned him in return. “And what do you think that would be?”

His jaw ticked, stepping forward and closing all space between them. It was suffocating, your back pressed firmly against the wall.

You stopped him before he could open his mouth. “No, go ahead. Tell me. What’s the reason I escaped from my cell? Why do I so badly want to run from this.. prison?”

He reached out and grasped your chin between his fingers, a bruising grip as he jolted your head backwards to look up at him.

Your skull knocked against the wall painfully, making you grunt at the sudden disorientation.

“You are walking a very, very fine line—darling.” The pet name fell from his lips like a spit of venom. You hated him. God, you hated him.

Silence fell, nothing but your shallow breaths rattling around in your head.

You were sick to the stomach of pretending all of this was worth it anymore.

Playing dollhouse with Henry had turned sour. Maybe it was naive of you to believe this could have ever worked out.

Perhaps it was his plan from the very beginning to plague your mind with his daydreams of a white picket fence, only for the reality to be purgatory.

“Did you actually believe you could have survived out there without me?” He chastised, fingernails indenting the skin on your cheek.

“Yes.” You replied without hesitation, a mixture of determination and fear in your eyes.

“Yes?” Fuck. Fuck.

Silence again. Words were not reaching your lips, eyes glazing over when you realised just how far you were pushing. What else was there to lose?

He towered over you, shoulders rigid and posture unnervingly perfect. His voice had dropped to a threatening whisper.

“Must I remind you of who puts clothes on your back and food on the table?”

You hadn’t noticed his other hand pressed against the wall by your hip, his fingers find their way to the seam of your blouse.

Your stomach dropped further. You could smell the fresh mint toothpaste on his tongue, the faded cedar wood cologne clinging to the tweed fabric of his brown waistcoat.

His eyes turned downwards, his glasses sliding along the bridge of his thin nose.

Without speaking, he let go of your chin, shoving your face to the side with utter disregard for the throbbing in your jaw.

“My shoes got dirty chasing you through the mud.” He huffed, your brows furrowing in confusion as to why that was relevant. “I want you to clean the dirt from them.”

Your lips parted to question him. But it was better not to. He stepped back to give you more space, and you gently lowered yourself down on one knee. He was right, there were speckles of dried dirt and shrubs covering more of the black leather.

You lifted your hands, fingers getting to work on the laces. Then, you pulled down the sleeve of your blouse—ready to use it as a makeshift cloth.

He yanked his foot away, causing you to glance up at him in confusion. “No. Not with your hands.”

You could’ve sworn you felt her heart stop, murmuring before speeding up.

It took a few seconds for you to process his words, the expression on his face hard and impatient. His jawline kept twitching.

“Keep them behind your back.”

The ground swallowed you up as you tilted your head to glance back down at the floor.

Without looking, you knew the impatience in his expression was palpable, eyes boring through the crown of your skull.

You inhaled a sharp breath, slowly stretching back your arms and rolling your shoulders, before grasping your hands together at the small of your back.

The position was awkward for what you were about to do, and that was the point. It was humiliation, something Henry had grown fond of when it came to punishing you.

And deep down, there was that part of you tucked neatly behind your soul that took a deep and conflicting comfort in the arousal it caused you to feel.

You shifted onto both knees, leaning down until your face was inches from the floorboards.

You waited patiently for him to move forward again, his right foot coming into your field of vision, and you could smell the earth clinging to the expensive leather.

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, before you stuck it all the way out until it lay flat against your bottom lip.

You leaned forward as much as your joints would allow, arm muscles tight as they stretched against your back.

Then, you could taste the bitterness of the soil and feel the gritty texture against your tongue.

It slid along the front of the shoe, the wetness beginning to lift the dirt and debris. You didn’t cringe at the taste.

There had been a few occasions where he had you in the same position, on your knees and lapping at the leather of his shoes, clean or not.

To an outsider, it would be considered entirely obscene behaviour—shamefully degrading.

That’s exactly what it is.

Henry’s voice echoed in your mind. Distant, yet so close. Imaginary, yet so real.

He was in your head.

A pain behind your eyes caused you to wince, a roaring and sudden thunderclap headache rolling from your forehead to your skull.

As you took a moment to breathe, your tongue pulled back between your lips before you closed your mouth.

The gritty texture crackled between your teeth as you tried to ignore the sensation.

His right foot pulled out of your vision, replaced by his left.

If only you could see yourself right now.

And then, you did. The image flashed in your mind as you froze, fingers slipping.

As if a bystander, you stood in the corner of the room and could see yourself hunched over at Henry’s feet.

Your muscles were starting to ache, and you could see how you were straining as your hands started to sweat.

And Henry, God.

He stood there with a terrifyingly perfect posture, his hands in the pockets of his brown slacks as he looked not at you, but straight ahead at the wall, unnervingly casual.

A heat crawled down the back of your spine, radiating against each of your ribs before splaying outwards and encasing your bottom half.

There was no denying to him that your thighs were starting to tremble as that familiar ache started to build in your lower abdomen.

Get up.

The instruction came so quickly that you short-circuited for a second, the thumping ache of your skull and almost unexplainable taste in your mouth knocking all of your senses.

“Get up.” His voice came from above you this time, your hands finally slipping before you managed to save yourself by planting them firmly on the floor.

They had gone slightly numb from the awkward position, but you pushed yourself upwards to a stand swiftly and took a step back to your prior position.

His eyes flickered to yours again, but his expression was impassive.

“I want you to go to the bathroom.” He instructed, and you listened. “And wash your mouth out.”