The door groans on its hinges and the sound is loud enough to wake the dead. Morning light spills in, grey and thin, catching dust motes that hang suspended in the cold air. The smell hits me first—stale sweat, pine resin, the metallic tang of rope that's been pulled too tight for too long. It's the smell of her, now. The smell of what I've made.

She's awake.

Elena's eyes find me the second the door moves, and there's something in them that hasn't been there the last two days. Not the defiance—that's still there, simmering under the surface like a live wire. Not even the hatred, though that's present too, a constant hum I've learned to read. It's alertness. The sharp, animal awareness of something that's been hunted and knows the hunter is back in the room.

I let the door swing shut behind me and the latch clicks, sealing us in. The plate is warm in my hand, the sandwich I made an hour ago in the cabin's tiny kitchen still holding its heat. Bread, ham, cheese. Nothing fancy. But it's food, and she hasn't eaten since I brought her here.

"Morning, Darling."

She flinches at the name. Every time. Like it's a slap she can't brace for. Her jaw tightens and she looks away, staring at the wall where the rules are taped, her own handwriting staring back at her. I watch her read them—I can see the words moving behind her eyes, the way her lips form the shape of them without sound.

I cross the room and set the plate down on the bedside table. The ceramic clinks against the wood and she doesn't move, doesn't turn her head, just keeps staring at that wall like it might save her.

"You need to eat."

Nothing.

"Elena." My voice drops, and I see her shoulders tense. "Look at me."

She does. Slow, reluctant, like the movement costs her something. Her eyes are red-rimmed, shadowed with sleeplessness, and there are dried tear tracks on her cheeks that she hasn't bothered to wipe away. Her hair is a mess—the messy bun has come half-undone, strands of brown falling across her face. Without her glasses, her eyes look naked. Vulnerable. Like something that's been peeled open.

"I said you need to eat." I keep my voice even. Calm. The way you'd talk to a spooked animal. "Sit up."

She doesn't move at first. For a long moment, we just look at each other, and I can see the war happening behind her eyes—the part of her that wants to fight, to refuse, to spit in my face and damn the consequences. And the other part, the one that's learned what happens when she refuses. The welts on her stomach and thighs are a map of that lesson, red and raw under the thin fabric of her underwear.

She sits up.

It's not graceful. Her wrists are bound above her head, the rope running to the headboard, so she has to shove herself up with her elbows, her body sliding against the rough quilt. She's stiff—I can see it in the way she moves, the careful way she holds her torso. The flogger left marks that go deeper than skin.

I let her struggle for a moment before I reach out and help her, my hand finding her shoulder and guiding her back against the headboard. She flinches at my touch, her whole body going rigid, and I feel a flicker of irritation rise in my chest.

She's still fighting. Still flinching. Still treating me like something she wants to escape.

The rules say she's supposed to be grateful. The rules say she's supposed to accept her place. But rules on a wall don't change what's in someone's heart, and Elena Vance is a long way from broken.

I pick up the sandwich from the plate. Bread, ham, cheese. The edges are slightly crusted from the pan I toasted it in. I hold it to her lips.

"Eat."

She looks at the sandwich like it's poison. Her lips press together in a thin line and she shakes her head, barely a movement, barely a refusal.

I don't move. The sandwich stays where it is, an inch from her mouth.

"I'm not asking," I say, and my voice is soft, almost gentle. "You haven't eaten in two days. You're going to eat this, and then you're going to thank me for it. That's how this works now."

Her eyes flash. For a second, I see the old Elena—the professor, the woman who stood in front of a lecture hall and corrected equations with cool authority. The woman who looked at me like I was nothing.

"I'm not hungry."

"You're lying."

"I'm not—"

"You're lying," I repeat, and I let the edge creep into my voice. "And even if you weren't, I didn't ask if you were hungry. I told you to eat."

The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy. The river murmurs outside, a low constant sound that's become the soundtrack to this place. Somewhere in the walls, a beetle scratches. Elena's breath is shallow, her chest rising and falling too fast.

I watch the war play out on her face. The pride. The anger. The fear. The exhaustion that's been building for two days, wearing down her defenses one hour at a time.

She opens her mouth.

I press the sandwich to her lips and she takes a bite. Small. Hesitant. Her teeth sink into the bread and she chews slowly, mechanically, like she's forgotten how to eat. Her eyes never leave my face, watching me the whole time, and there's something in them I can't quite name. Not surrender. Not yet. But something that's starting to crack.

I watch her chew. Watch her swallow. The movement of her throat is delicate, vulnerable, and I feel something tighten in my chest.

"Another bite."

She takes another. And another. I feed her like she's a child, holding the sandwich to her lips, waiting for her to chew and swallow before offering the next bite. She eats the whole thing without a word, and when it's gone, she licks her lips—an unconscious movement, her tongue darting out to catch a crumb—and looks at me.

I set the plate back on the table. The silence in the room is absolute, broken only by the river and the sound of her breathing.

I wait.

She knows what I'm waiting for. I can see it in the way her eyes drop, the way her jaw tightens, the way her fingers curl into fists against the rope binding her wrists. The rules are taped to the wall at her eye level. She's read them a hundred times since I put them there. She knows what comes next.

The seconds stretch. The river murmurs. Her breath hitches.

"Thank you, Sir."

The words are flat. Dead. Stripped of all inflection, all feeling, just sounds pushed out of her mouth because she knows there's no other way. But she said them. She said them first, without me having to prompt her, without me having to raise my voice or reach for the flogger.

Progress.

I nod slowly, letting her see the approval in my eyes. My hand comes up, almost without my permission, and my thumb finds the corner of her mouth. There's a crumb there, caught in the seam of her lips, and I brush it away. Her skin is warm. Soft. She flinches at my touch, a small involuntary movement, but she doesn't pull away.

She's learning.

"You're beautiful when you're grateful," I murmur, and I feel the words leave my mouth before I've fully decided to say them.

Her eyes snap to mine, and for a moment the flatness in them flickers into something sharper. Something that looks almost like disgust, but there's a tremor underneath it now. A crack she can't hide. Her lips part, and I can see her fighting herself, the words stuck somewhere between her throat and her teeth.

"Thank you, Sir," she whispers, and her voice cracks on the last word. Breaks like thin ice. She doesn't look away this time. Her eyes hold mine, and there's something raw in them I haven't seen before. Not hatred. Not defiance. Something closer to despair, the realization that she's said the words twice now and the world didn't end, that the ground didn't open up and swallow her whole.

I keep my thumb at the corner of her mouth, feeling the small tremor in her jaw. The warmth of her skin against my calloused pad. She doesn't flinch this time. That's new. That's something I can build on.

"Good girl," I say, and the words come out softer than I intended. I see her throat move as she swallows, and I wonder if she's thinking about her daughter. If she's wondering where Kira is right now, whether anyone has noticed she's missing, whether anyone is coming to save her.

No one is.

I drop my hand and step back, letting the moment stretch. The river murmurs through the cracked log wall, a constant reminder that we're miles from anyone who could hear her scream. The cold draft curls around my ankles, and I realize the fire in the other room must have burned down to nothing hours ago.

"You did well this morning," I tell her, and I watch her face for any sign of the old Elena, the professor who would have scoffed at praise from a student. There's a flicker of something—embarrassment, maybe, or shame—but it passes quickly, replaced by that same tired resignation.

She's learning to accept. Learning to take what I give her without fighting every step.

I look down at the plate on the bedside table, and I notice for the first time that it's chipped. A small crack running from the rim down toward the center, the kind of flaw you'd never notice unless you were looking. I wonder how long it's been here, this plate. How many people have eaten off it, in this cabin that no one was supposed to find.

I pick it up and turn it over in my hands. The ceramic is cool now, the last of the sandwich's warmth gone. There's a faded stamp on the bottom, a brand from a store that probably closed years ago. The cabin was someone's escape once, I realize. Someone's retreat from the world. Now it's her cage.

"I'm going to leave you alone for a while," I say, setting the plate back down. "I have things to take care of. University, people who need me."

Her eyes widen slightly at that, and I can see the question forming behind them. Will anyone notice you're gone? Will anyone come looking? I don't answer it. Let her wonder. Let her hope, just a little, so that when no one comes, the disappointment cuts deeper.

"You'll be back," she says, and it's not a question. It's a statement, flat and hollow, like she's already accepted that this is her life now.

I don't answer her. The silence is the answer, and I watch her hear it—the way her breath catches, the way her eyes drop to the rope around her wrists like she's just now remembering it's there. Like she's just now remembering she can't leave.

"You should rest," I say. "You'll need your strength for tonight."

Her head snaps up at that. The flatness in her eyes flickers, and for a second I see the professor again—the woman who put me in my place in front of a hundred students, who looked at me like I was a fly she couldn't be bothered to swat. "What does that mean?"

"It means I'm not done with you yet, Darling." I let the name hang in the air between us, watch her flinch at it like she always does. "We still have a lot to work on."

I move to the foot of the bed before she can respond. The rope I used last night is coiled on the floor where I left it, a length of nylon that's already left its mark on her wrists. I pick it up and run it through my fingers, feeling the texture, the weight of it. She watches me with those red-rimmed eyes, and I can see her trying to predict what comes next—the same way she probably predicts the outcome of a physics problem, looking for the pattern, the formula that will tell her what's coming.

There's no formula for this.

"I'm going to add another rope," I tell her, keeping my voice calm, matter-of-fact. "Something to remind you of your place even when I'm not in the room."

Her brow furrows. "What—"

I don't explain. I just move to the side of the bed and start working the rope through the gaps in the headboard, creating a second line that runs down the center of the mattress. She tracks the movement with her eyes, and I see the moment she understands—the way her whole body goes still, the way her breath stops in her chest.

"No."

"Yes."

"Please—"

"You'll thank me for it," I say, and I let the edge creep into my voice. "You'll thank me because that's what good girls do."

Her jaw tightens. I can see the war on her face—the part of her that wants to spit at me, to tell me exactly what she thinks of me and my ropes and my rules. And the other part, the one that's learned what happens when she fights. The welts on her stomach and thighs are still red, still raw. She knows the cost of resistance now.

She doesn't say anything.

I take that as acceptance.

I work quickly, efficiently. The rope runs from the headboard down the center of the bed, and I guide it between her legs, positioning it so that it rests against her cunt through the thin fabric of her underwear. She gasps when it touches her—a sharp, involuntary sound that she tries to swallow. Her thighs clamp together, but I'm already there, my hands on her knees, pushing them apart.

"Don't."

"The rope stays where I put it," I say. "And every time you move, you'll feel it. Every time you shift, every time you try to get comfortable, you'll be reminded of what's between your legs. Of who put it there."

Her eyes are wet again. I watch the tears gather, watch her blink them back, watch her lose the fight. One spills over and tracks down her cheek, and I catch it with my thumb, wiping it away before it can fall.

"Shh," I murmur. "It's not so bad. You'll learn to like it."

"I won't."

"You will." I say it with absolute certainty, because I believe it. Because I've seen the way she says my rules now, the way she thanks me without being prompted. "You'll learn to like all of it, Darling. That's what this is for."

I finish securing the rope, pulling it taut enough that she'll feel it with every breath, every shift of her hips. Then I step back and look at her—spread-eagled on the bed, rope between her legs, tears on her cheeks, wearing nothing but her underwear and the marks I've left on her skin.

She looks like mine.

The thought sends a thrill through me, a warmth that settles low in my gut. I let my hand drift to her stomach, feeling the warmth of her skin, the slight tremor that runs through her at my touch. I trace the line of a welt, watching her flinch, watching her try not to.

"You're so tense," I say softly. "So afraid. And for what? I've been good to you, haven't I? I fed you. I let you sleep."

She doesn't answer. Her eyes are fixed on the wall, on the rules taped there, her own handwriting staring back at her like an accusation.

"Haven't I?" I press, and my hand slides lower, over the curve of her hip, down toward the rope between her legs. She tenses, her whole body going rigid, and I feel the flutter of her pulse under my palm.

"Yes, Sir," she whispers. The words are barely audible, pushed out through clenched teeth.

"Good girl." My hand settles on the rope, pressing it gently against her through the fabric of her underwear. She gasps, her hips jerking involuntarily, and I feel the heat of her through the cotton. "See? You're already learning."

I let my fingers trace the line of the rope, feeling the tension in it, feeling the way her body responds to the pressure. She's wet—I can feel the dampness seeping through the fabric, and I wonder if it's arousal or fear or some combination of both. It doesn't matter. What matters is that she's responding, that her body is betraying her even as her mind screams no.

"Are you grateful?" I ask, and my voice is soft, almost gentle. "For my touch? For the care I'm giving you?"

She's silent for a long moment. I can see her fighting herself, the words stuck in her throat. Her eyes are squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners, and I watch her chest rise and fall with the effort of breathing.

"Yes, Sir," she says finally. "I'm grateful."

I smile. "That's a lie."

Her eyes snap open. "What—"

"You're not grateful," I say, and I let the disappointment seep into my voice. "You're afraid. You're disgusted. You're wishing I would just leave you alone. And instead of telling me the truth, you lied."

Her mouth opens, closes. I can see the panic rising in her eyes, the realization that she's made a mistake, that she's broken a rule without even realizing it.

"What's rule seven, Darling?"

She doesn't answer. Her lips are trembling, her whole body shaking now.

"I asked you a question."

"No lying," she whispers. "I will not lie to Sir."

"That's right." I nod slowly, letting her see the disappointment in my eyes. "And what did you just do?"

"I—" Her voice cracks. "I didn't mean to—"

"You lied." I say it flatly, without anger, without emotion. "You told me you were grateful when you're not. You broke the rule."

Her breath is coming in short, sharp gasps now. "Please—"

"Please what?"

"Please don't—"

"Don't what?" I take a step closer, and she shrinks back against the headboard. "Don't punish you for lying? Don't hold you to the rules you agreed to?"

"I didn't agree—"

"You recited them," I say. "You said them out loud. You told me you would be grateful for your place. That's an agreement."

She's crying now, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. I watch them fall, watch the way her shoulders shake, and I feel something twist in my chest. Not pity—I don't have room for pity. Something else. Something that feels like satisfaction.

"You'll be punished tonight," I say. "When I come back. I'll think of something appropriate."

"No—"

"Yes." I reach out and cup her cheek, feeling the wetness of her tears on my palm. "You broke a rule, Darling. Rules have consequences. You know that."

She shakes her head, a desperate, broken movement. "Please, Justin—"

The name stops me cold. She hasn't called me that since I brought her here. Since I told her that name was dead, that I was something else now, something she had to answer to.

"What did you call me?"

Her eyes go wide. She realizes her mistake a second too late, and I watch the horror dawn on her face.

"I'm sorry—"

"What did you call me?"

"Sir," she says quickly, desperately. "I'm sorry, Sir. I didn't mean—"

"You called me Justin." I let my hand drop from her face. "The old name. The student you humiliated in front of your class."

"I'm sorry." She's begging now, her voice raw and broken. "Please, I'm sorry, Sir. I won't do it again."

"No," I agree. "You won't."

I pull my hand back and then bring it across her cheek in a sharp, controlled slap. The sound cracks through the room, and her head snaps to the side, her hair falling across her face. She gasps, a choked sound of pain and surprise, and I watch the red mark bloom on her cheek.

"That's for the lie," I say, my voice calm. "And for the name."

She's trembling, her whole body shaking with silent sobs. Her cheek is red where I hit her, the mark already darkening. She doesn't look at me. She stares at the wall, at the rules, at the words she wrote with her own hand.

"I'll be back tonight," I tell her. "Think about what you did. Think about how you're going to make it right."

I turn and walk toward the door. Behind me, I hear her voice, cracked and desperate.

"Please don't leave me."

I stop. Turn. Look at her—tied to the bed, rope between her legs, tears on her face, the red mark on her cheek. She's begging me to stay. Begging me not to leave her alone in this cabin with nothing but the rules on the wall and the rope against her cunt.

"Please," she whispers. "Please don't—I can't—"

"You can," I say. "You will. And when I come back, you'll thank me for teaching you."

I walk out the door and close it behind me. Her sobs follow me down the hallway, muffled by the wood, and I let them wash over me as I grab my jacket from the hook by the door.

I have things to do. University, people who need me. And she'll be here when I get back, exactly where I left her.

The drive back to campus takes an hour. The roads are empty this early, the sun still low and pale in the sky. I park in the lot behind my dorm and head inside, taking the stairs two at a time.

Maya's not there.

The room is empty, her bed made, her laptop gone. She's already in class. I check the clock—I've got twenty minutes before my economics lecture starts.

I strip out of the clothes I've been wearing since yesterday morning. The shirt smells like pine and sweat, the jeans stiff with dried mud from the trail up to the cabin. I pull on fresh ones—clean shirt, clean jeans—and run my fingers through my hair, trying to make myself look like a normal student.

Like someone who didn't just leave a woman tied to a bed with a rope between her legs.

The walk to the economics building is short. I take the back paths, avoiding the main quad, and slip into the lecture hall just as the professor is setting up. Elisa Marchetti looks up as I slide into a seat near my team, and she gives me a small nod of recognition.

My team. Priya, Anna, and the others. They're already there, notebooks open, laptops out, discussing something in low voices. Priya looks up as I sit down, and there's a question in her eyes.

"You look like shit," she says.

"Thanks."

"Seriously. Did you sleep at all?"

"Rough night." I don't elaborate. I don't have to. Priya's smart enough to know when not to push.

Anna leans over, her voice bright, oblivious. "We were just going over the project outline. I think we've got a solid structure now—if we can get the data analysis done by Friday, we should be ahead of schedule."

I nod, pulling out my notebook. "Sounds good."

Elisa starts the lecture, her voice warm and animated, and I let it wash over me. I should be paying attention. I should be taking notes. But my mind keeps drifting back to the cabin, to Elena, to the feel of her skin under my hand and the sound of her tears.

To the rope between her legs, and the way she'll feel it every time she moves.

I smile, just a little, and Priya catches it. She raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything.

The lecture continues. I take notes on autopilot, my pen moving across the page while my mind stays somewhere else entirely. And when the class ends, I pack up my things and head back out into the morning sun.

I have a long day ahead of me. And tonight, I have a punishment to deliver.

The lecture hall empties around me in a rush of shuffling bags and low chatter. I pack my notebook slowly, letting the noise wash over me, feeling the weight of the morning settle into my bones. Priya's still beside me, waiting, her backpack slung over one shoulder.

"You coming to physics?" she asks.

I hadn't thought about it. Hadn't thought about anything except the cabin, the rope, the sound of Elena's sobs following me down the hallway. But physics is next on my schedule. Vance's class.

Something cold and bright kindles in my chest.

"Yeah," I say. "Wouldn't miss it."

Priya gives me a look—that sharp, assessing look she does so well—but she doesn't push. She just falls into step beside me as we head out of the economics building and across the quad toward the science wing.

The sun's higher now, burning off the morning haze. Students cluster on the grass, laptops open, coffee cups in hand. A frisbee arcs overhead and someone shouts. It all feels impossibly normal. Like the world hasn't noticed that I've become something else entirely.

We reach the physics lecture hall a few minutes early. The room is half-empty, students scattered in their usual seats. I slide into a seat near the back, Priya taking the one beside me. She pulls out her notebook, then pauses, looking at me.

"You're smiling."

I hadn't realized. I let the smile sit there, feeling the shape of it on my face. "Am I?"

"Yeah. You look like you just won something."

I don't answer. The door at the front of the room opens, and I feel the familiar tension coil in my chest—the anticipation of seeing her walk in, the little thrill of knowing what she looks like now, what I've done to her.

But it's not her.

The man who walks in is older, mid-forties, with a rumpled blazer and a coffee mug in one hand. He sets the mug on the lectern and looks out at the class with a genial smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Good morning, everyone," he says. "I'm Carl Stevenson. I'll be filling in for Dr. Vance for the next few weeks."

The room stirs. A few students exchange glances. I hear someone whisper, "Where's Vance?"

I keep my face blank, but inside, something warm unfurls. She's exactly where I left her.

Carl clears his throat, shuffling a stack of papers on the lectern. "Dr. Vance has taken a leave of absence—a family emergency, I understand. She won't be returning for at least three weeks, so I'll be covering her lectures and office hours."

He says it so casually. Like it's nothing. Like the woman he's replacing isn't tied to a bed in a cabin an hour away, wearing nothing but her underwear and a rope between her legs.

I feel the smile threaten to break through again, and I force it down, focusing on the scratch of my pen against the notebook page.

"A family emergency," Priya murmurs beside me. Her voice is low, pitched for my ears only. "That's convenient."

I don't look at her. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, three weeks of leave, right after you come to class looking like you haven't slept in days. Right after you start smiling at nothing." She pauses. "What do you know, Justin?"

The question hangs in the air. Carl is still talking, explaining the syllabus, the grading policy, the office hours. The words wash over me, meaningless.

I could lie. I've been lying so well lately—to Maya, to Kira, to everyone. But something about the way Priya's watching me, the sharpness in her eyes, makes me want to tell her the truth. Or at least a version of it.

"I told you," I say, keeping my voice low. "I put her in her place."

Priya's eyebrows rise. "Her place."

"She humiliated me in front of a hundred students. She looked at me like I was nothing." I let the words settle, feeling the weight of them. "No one has the right to do that without consequence. No one."

For a long moment, Priya doesn't respond. She's watching me with those dark, assessing eyes, and I can see her turning my words over, testing them for weaknesses. I wonder if she can see the truth written on my face—the cabin, the rope, the sound of Elena's begging.

But she doesn't ask.

"I chose my teammate well," she says finally, and there's something in her voice I can't quite name. Not approval, exactly. Not fear. Something in between. Something that sounds almost like respect.

I let myself smile, just a little. "Yeah. You did."

Carl starts the lecture, his voice droning on about vectors and force diagrams. I take notes on autopilot, my pen moving across the page while my mind drifts back to the cabin. To the rope I tied this morning. To the way Elena gasped when it touched her, the way her thighs clamped together before I pushed them apart.

I wonder if she's still lying there. If she's felt the rope shift every time she moves, a constant reminder of who put it there. I wonder if she's thinking about me, hating me, wishing she could get free.

The thought sends a thrill through me, warm and dark.

Beside me, Priya is taking notes, her handwriting neat and precise. She doesn't look at me, but I can feel her attention, the weight of her curiosity. She knows I'm not telling her everything. She knows there's more to this than I'm letting on.

But she's not asking. Not yet.

The lecture continues. I let the minutes stretch, feeling the shape of the day ahead of me. I have classes to attend, a project to work on, a team to manage. I have a life to pretend to live.

And tonight, I have a punishment to deliver.

When the class ends, I gather my things and head for the door. Priya falls into step beside me, and we walk in silence for a moment before she speaks.

"You're not going to tell me what you did, are you?"

"No."

"Okay." She doesn't push. She just nods, like she expected that answer. "Just be careful, Justin. Whatever this is—whatever you're doing—don't let it swallow you whole."

I stop walking. Turn to look at her. She's standing in the middle of the hallway, students flowing around us, her dark hair catching the light from the windows.

"It's already done," I say. "There's no going back now."

She holds my gaze for a long moment. Then she nods, once, and turns to walk away.

I watch her go, feeling something shift in my chest. She's smart, Priya. Smarter than she lets on. She knows something's wrong, knows I'm not the same person I was a week ago.

But she's not going to stop me. She's not going to tell anyone.

I head back to my dorm, the morning sun warm on my face. Maya's still not there—she must have classes all day. I drop my bag on my desk and sit down, pulling out my phone.

No messages. No missed calls. The world hasn't noticed that Dr. Elena Vance is missing. The world hasn't noticed that I've become something else.

I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. The hours stretch ahead of me, empty and full at the same time. I have work to do, a project to contribute to, a life to pretend to live.

But all I can think about is her.

The way she looked this morning, spread-eagled on that bed. The way she flinched when I touched her, the way she said "Thank you, Sir" with her voice cracking. The way she begged me not to leave, tears streaming down her face.

She's waiting for me. Counting the hours until I come back.

I close my eyes and let the feeling wash over me—the warmth, the satisfaction, the hunger that's been building in my chest since the moment I first saw her tied to that bed. She's mine. She's learning that. And tonight, I'll teach her a little more.

The day passes in a blur. Classes, meetings, the dull rhythm of pretending to be normal. I eat lunch in the dining hall with Priya and Anna, nodding along as they talk about the project, the data analysis, the timeline. I take notes in my afternoon classes, my pen moving mechanically while my mind stays somewhere else entirely.

And all the while, the hours tick down. The sun arcs across the sky, the shadows lengthen, and I feel the anticipation building in my chest like a pressure I can't release.

By the time the last class ends, I'm vibrating with it. I walk back to my dorm, my steps quick, my heart hammering against my ribs. Maya's still not there. I grab my jacket from the hook by the door and head back out into the fading light.

The drive to the cabin takes an hour. The roads are empty, the sun low and orange on the horizon. I park in the same spot as before, the gravel crunching under my boots as I step out.

The cabin is dark. Quiet. I climb the porch steps and push open the door, the hinges groaning in the silence.

She's still there. Still tied to the bed, exactly where I left her.

The rope between her legs is wet now, soaked through her underwear. She's been moving—I can see the marks on her thighs, the red lines where the rope has chafed against her skin. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her cheeks wet with tears she hasn't bothered to wipe away.

She looks up as I enter, and something flickers in her eyes. Not hope. Not relief. Something closer to resignation. The acceptance of a woman who knows there's no escape, no rescue, no end to this.

"You're back," she says, and her voice is hoarse, barely a whisper.

"I told you I would be." I cross the room, my boots loud on the floorboards. "Did you miss me, Darling?"

She flinches at the name, but she doesn't answer. Her eyes drop to the rope between her legs, and I watch her throat move as she swallows.

"I can see you've been moving," I say, stopping beside the bed. "Feeling the rope every time you shift. Remembering what I told you."

"Yes, Sir." The words are automatic now, pushed out without thought.

"Good." I reach down and touch the rope, running my fingers along the wet fabric. She gasps, her hips jerking involuntarily, and I feel the heat of her through the cotton. "You've been thinking about tonight. About your punishment."

She doesn't answer. Her eyes are squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners.

"Open your eyes, Elena."

She does. Slowly, reluctantly. Her gaze meets mine, and I see the fear there, the exhaustion, the desperate hope that I'll be merciful.

"You broke a rule," I say. "You lied to me. You called me by my old name. You know what that means."

"Please—"

"Please what? Please don't punish you? Please let you off the hook?" I shake my head slowly. "That's not how this works, Darling. You agreed to the rules. You recited them. Now you have to face the consequences."

Her breath is coming in short, sharp gasps. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Sir. I won't do it again."

"I know you won't." I reach out and cup her cheek, feeling the wetness of her tears. "Because by the time I'm done with you tonight, you'll never even think about breaking a rule again."

I let my hand drop and step back, looking at her—spread-eagled on the bed, rope between her legs, tears on her face, the mark of my hand still fading on her cheek.

She looks like mine. More than ever, she looks like mine.

"You're going to count for me tonight," I say, my voice soft. "Every stroke. Every hit. You're going to thank me for each one, and you're going to mean it."

Her eyes widen. "Please—"

"You'll thank me," I repeat, "because that's what good girls do. And you want to be a good girl, don't you, Elena?"

She stares at me for a long moment, her chest rising and falling with the effort of breathing. And then, slowly, she nods.

"Yes, Sir."

The words are barely audible, pushed out through trembling lips. But she said them. She said them without me having to force her.

Progress.

I move to the table where the flogger is waiting, running my fingers along the leather. She watches me, her eyes tracking the movement, and I see the fear flicker across her face.

"Don't worry," I say, turning back to her. "I'll be gentle. At first."

I cross the room and stand beside the bed, the flogger in my hand. She's watching me, her body rigid, her breath shallow.

"Count for me, Darling."

I raise the flogger and bring it down across her thigh. The leather cracks against her skin, leaving a red mark, and she gasps, her body jerking against the ropes.

"One," she whispers. "Thank you, Sir."

I bring it down again. Another mark, another gasp.

"Two. Thank you, Sir."

Her voice is steady. Stronger than I expected. I feel a flicker of irritation—she's supposed to be broken, not resilient—but I push it down. I'll break her. It just takes time.

I bring the flogger down again. And again. Each stroke lands with a crack, each one leaving a red mark on her pale skin. She counts them all, her voice growing shakier with each number, her thanks growing more desperate.

"Ten. Thank you, Sir."

Her thighs are covered in red welts now, the skin raw and angry. Her eyes are wet, tears streaming down her cheeks, but she hasn't begged me to stop. She hasn't broken.

I lower the flogger and step closer, running my hand along her thigh, feeling the heat of the marks I've left. She shivers at my touch, her breath catching.

"You're doing so well," I murmur. "So brave. But we're not done yet."

Her eyes find mine, and I see the question there. The fear.

"I want you to remember this tonight," I say. "Every time you close your eyes, I want you to feel these marks. I want you to remember who put them there. I want you to remember what happens when you break the rules."

"Yes, Sir."

I lean down and press my lips to her forehead. She flinches, but she doesn't pull away. She's learning.

"Good girl."

I straighten up and look at her—marked, tear-stained, trembling. She's beautiful like this. Broken and beautiful.

And she's mine.

I step back, letting the silence stretch. The river murmurs outside, the only sound in the room besides her ragged breathing. She's watching me, waiting for whatever comes next, and I can see the exhaustion in her eyes, the bone-deep weariness of a woman who's been fighting for two days and is starting to lose.

I look at her for a long moment, letting the silence do its work. The river murmurs outside, indifferent. She's watching me with those exhausted brown eyes, her chest rising and falling too fast, the welts on her thighs gleaming under the moonlight.

"Tonight," I say, "we're going to try something different."

Her body goes still. The only movement is the trembling in her fingers where they're tied to the bedframe.

"I'm going to untie you."

The words land like a slap. Her eyes widen, and I can see the hope flicker there — the desperate, stupid hope that this is over, that I'm letting her go. I let it live for a second. Let her taste it.

"Don't look so eager," I say, and the hope dies. "You're not going anywhere."

I move to the foot of the bed and start working the knot at her ankle. The rope has left deep red grooves in her skin, and she hisses as the pressure releases, flexing her foot. I can feel her watching me, trying to read my face, trying to find the angle. She's smart. That's part of why this works.

I move to the other ankle, then the wrists. She doesn't move, doesn't try to run. She knows better. Or she's too exhausted to try.

"Sit up," I say.

She does, slowly, her body stiff from two days on that mattress. The sheet pools around her waist, and she's still in her underwear — the same plain cotton set she was wearing when I took her. The fabric is wrinkled, damp with sweat. She looks smaller like this. Less like a professor. More like a woman who's been caught.

"Get off the bed."

She swings her legs over the edge, her bare feet touching the cold floor. She stands, wobbling slightly, one hand going to the bedpost for balance. The welts on her thighs catch the moonlight, and I watch her register her own body — the marks, the bruises, the evidence of what's been done to her.

"Kneel."

Her head snaps up. The word hangs between us, and I can see the war on her face — the defiance warring with the exhaustion, the pride fighting the fear. She's been a professor for years. She's stood in front of lecture halls full of students, commanded respect with nothing but her voice and her equations. And now I'm telling her to kneel.

"I said kneel."

Her jaw tightens. "Please—"

"Please what?" I step closer, and she flinches back against the bedpost. "Please don't make you kneel? Please let you keep your dignity?" I shake my head. "You gave that up when you recited my rules, Darling. Now kneel."

She stares at me. I can see the tears welling in her eyes, the tremble in her lip. For a moment I think she's going to fight. I almost want her to. But then her knees buckle, and she sinks to the floor, her head dropping forward, her hair falling in a messy curtain around her face.

"Head down," I say. "You know the rule."

She lowers her head until her chin touches her chest, her hands resting on her thighs. She's kneeling on the cold floorboards, her bare knees pressed into the wood, her body curled in on itself like she's trying to disappear.

I watch her for a moment, letting the image burn into me. This is what I wanted. This is what I planned for, schemed for, blackmailed for. And here she is. Kneeling at my feet.

I walk to the chair in the corner and sit down, the wood creaking under my weight. I don't say anything. Just let the silence stretch, let her wonder what comes next.

"Crawl to me," I say finally.

Her head lifts slightly, just enough to meet my eyes. There's something in her gaze — not defiance, not quite. Something rawer. Something broken.

"What?"

"You heard me. Crawl."

She doesn't move. Her hands are shaking, I can see them trembling where they rest on her thighs. Her breath is coming in short, shallow gasps.

"Elena." My voice is soft, almost gentle. "You can either crawl to me, or I can come over there and make you. But either way, you're going to end up between my legs. The only question is how much dignity you get to keep."

She closes her eyes. A tear slips down her cheek, and she wipes it away with the back of her hand, a gesture so quick and human it almost makes me feel something. Almost.

Then she moves.

She drops onto her hands and knees, her palms flat on the floorboards, her knees sliding across the wood. She crawls toward me slowly, painfully, each movement a small death. Her head is bowed, her hair dragging across the floor. She looks like an animal. A beaten, broken animal.

She stops when she reaches me, her body hovering between my knees. She doesn't look up. She just kneels there, her chest heaving, her breath ragged.

"Look at me."

She lifts her head. Her eyes are red, her cheeks wet, but there's something else there now. Something I can't quite name. Hate, maybe. Terror. Disgust. All of it mixed together in a cocktail I want to drink slow.

"This is where you belong," I say. "Right here. Between my legs. At my feet. This is your place, Elena. Say it."

Her lips part. No sound comes out.

"Say it."

"This is my place," she whispers. The words are barely audible, pushed out through trembling lips. "I belong here. At your feet."

I hear it in her voice. Every single thing she's feeling — the hate, the terror, the disgust, the sadness, the begging. It's all there, layered under the words, and I know she means none of what she's saying. But she's saying it. And that's what matters.

"Good girl." I reach down and pat her head, my fingers threading through her hair. She flinches, but she doesn't pull away. "You're learning."

She stays there, kneeling between my legs, her head bowed. I can feel the heat of her body, the trembling in her shoulders. She's so fragile like this. So breakable.

"Now," I say, my voice dropping. "Come rest your head on my thigh."

Her breath catches. She looks up at me, and I see the panic in her eyes, the desperate plea.

"Please—"

"On my thigh, Elena. Do it."

She stares at me for a long moment, her body shaking. Then she moves, slowly, leaning forward until her cheek presses against my thigh. I feel the warmth of her skin through the denim, the softness of her hair against my leg.

But she doesn't stop there.

Her cheek slides down, down, until it's resting against the bulge in my jeans. I feel her freeze, feel the shudder that runs through her body. She knows what she's touching. She knows what I'm asking.

"That's it," I murmur. "That's where you belong."

She makes a sound — a small, broken whimper that cuts through the silence. Her body is rigid, her hands clenched into fists on the floor. I can feel her tears soaking through the denim, hot and wet against my cock.

"Shh," I say, reaching down and patting her head again. "It's okay. You're okay."

She sobs. A real, ugly sob that wracks her whole body, her shoulders shaking, her breath coming in gasps. I let her cry. I let her get it all out.

I stroke her hair, slow and gentle, like she's a dog I'm calming. My other hand rests on her shoulder, feeling the tremors running through her. She's so small like this. So broken.

"You're doing so well," I murmur. "So brave. I'm proud of you."

She cries harder. Her tears soak through my jeans, and I can feel the wet warmth of her breath against my cock through the fabric. She's humiliated. More humiliated than she's ever been in her life. I can feel it radiating off her like heat.

And I want more.

"This is your place," I repeat, my voice soft and steady. "This is where you belong. Not in a lecture hall, not in front of a classroom. Here. At my feet. Resting your head on my cock like a good girl."

She whimpers, her fingers curling into the floorboards.

"Say it again," I say. "Tell me where you belong."

"Here," she whispers, her voice thick with tears. "I belong here. At your feet. Resting my head on your—" She can't finish. A sob cuts her off.

"On my what?"

She takes a shaky breath. "On your cock. I belong here, resting my head on your cock."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I feel myself harden against her cheek, and she feels it too — I see her flinch, feel her body go rigid.

"Good girl," I say again. "That's exactly right."

I keep stroking her hair, slow and rhythmic, letting her cry against my thigh. The minutes stretch. The river murmurs outside. The moonlight creeps across the floorboards.

And I sit there, holding her, feeling the weight of her head on my cock, knowing that I've won.

She's not broken yet. Not completely. But she's getting there.

One piece at a time.

I let her cry for a long time. Long enough that her sobs turn to hiccups, then to silence. Long enough that her body goes limp against my thigh, the fight draining out of her like water from a cracked vessel.

"You're tired," I say softly. "I know you are. But we're not done yet."

She doesn't respond. Just lies there, her cheek pressed against my cock, her breath slow and even.

"I want you to remember this," I say. "Every time you think about fighting me, every time you think about running, I want you to remember what it felt like to kneel here. To rest your head on my cock like a good girl. To cry because you knew this is where you belong."

I feel her shudder. A small, broken sound escapes her lips.

"Yes, Sir," she whispers.

"Good girl." I pat her head one last time, then gently guide her upright. She looks at me with red-rimmed eyes, her face blotchy from crying, her hair a mess. She looks wrecked. She looks beautiful.

"Get back on the bed," I say. "It's time for you to rest."

She stands on shaky legs, wobbling as she makes her way to the bed. She climbs onto the mattress, curling onto her side, her back to me. I watch her for a moment, then walk over and pull the thin blanket up over her shoulders.

She flinches at my touch, but doesn't pull away.

"Sleep," I say. "Tomorrow will be better."

She doesn't respond. But I see her shoulders relax, just a fraction, as her body surrenders to exhaustion.

I stand there for a long moment, watching her breathe. The welts on her thighs peek out from under the blanket, red and raw. The rope burns on her wrists are already starting to bruise.

She's mine.

More than ever, she's mine.

I turn and walk to the door, pausing with my hand on the frame. The camera in the corner is still recording, its red light blinking in the darkness. I look at it, then back at her.

"Good night, Darling."

She doesn't answer. But I hear her breath catch, just for a second, before it evens out again.

I close the door behind me and lean against the wall in the hallway, my heart pounding, my cock aching. I can feel the ghost of her cheek against my thigh, the wet heat of her tears through the denim.

I have to adjust myself, the pressure almost painful.

This is only the beginning. I have two and a half weeks left with her. Two and a half weeks to break her completely. To make her forget she was ever anything but mine.

I push off the wall and walk to the other room, lying down on the thin mattress. The river murmurs outside. Somewhere in the distance, an owl calls.

I close my eyes, and I can still feel her. The weight of her head. The warmth of her tears. The sound of her voice saying the words I put in her mouth.

She called me Sir. She said she belonged at my feet.

Progress.

I let myself drift, the exhaustion finally catching up with me. But even as I fall asleep, I'm already planning tomorrow. Already thinking about what I'll make her do next. What I'll make her say.

She thinks tonight was the worst of it.

She has no idea what I have planned for her.