Romance

FALLON
“I won’t run,” I tell him, though that is a lie because the moment I know my sister is out of the hospital and my father and her are far away from the city, I intend to do just that. I just need to figure out how to get in contact with them, so I know where they’ll be before we disappear.
As he unlocks the cuffs, my wrist cracks in relief, though the rest of me remains tense, coiled tight as a spring. I rub at the red marks left behind awkwardly with my bad hand, glaring at him, yet one question has lingered in the back of my mind from the moment he stepped into the room. “Why did you do it?”
“Do what?” His voice is even, betraying nothing, but his jaw tightens just so.
“Help me when Leone…” I trail off, unable to say it. He shifts, a sudden tension in his broad shoulders, and looks away—a crack in his composed facade.
“Leone said you used to watch me through the cameras. How long

FALLON
I stand frozen as Leone slides my underwear down, his brown eyes locked onto mine—a silent command to comply and step out of them.
“This doesn’t need to be difficult, Fallon,” he says, his voice low, dangerous.
But everything about this is difficult. Everything about this screams against the very fiber of who I am. Yet here I am, yielding to their demands because what choice do I have?
Milo’s warmth presses against my back, prying my arm away from my chest as he removes the sling. I grip Leone’s shoulder, stepping out of the underwear, and he rises, towering over me. Sandwiched between them, I am painfully aware of their power, their physicality—muscle and flesh honed for intimidation and control. I don’t stand a chance against them.
Leone inclines his head toward the shower. “Milo will help you shower,” he says, his eyes lifting to Milo’s behind me. I glance at Milo over my shoul

FALLON
The stiffness in my limbs reminds me of the long hours I’ve spent handcuffed to this cold, unforgiving bed. Each minute stretches into agony, not just from the metal biting into my wrists, but from the need to relieve myself that grows more insistent with each passing second. The discomfort is nearly unbearable, intensifying my sense of vulnerability.
Just as the solitude and silence of the dim room begin to claw at my mind, amplifying my fear of being alone, the door creaks open. The sound slices through the oppressive stillness, a minor relief to the heavy quiet to which I’ve grown so accustomed. Being restrained immobilizes me physically and traps me with my anxieties, leaving me to wrestle with the looming dread of abandonment and the endless dark. Something I’ve spent years dealing with after we escaped my Grandmother’s, and it’s been one day or night, I am unsure, but they’re already threatening to unravel me.
It’s Milo who steps in. He carries a tray in his hands. The clink of cutlery against porcelain is loud in the silence. He places the tray down and surveys my body, his gaze skirting over me before finally locking eyes with me.
“Do you have any allergies to food?” His question slices through the tension, unusually caring considering the situation. They chain me to a bed yet care to ask about food allergies?
I shake my head, the bitterness in my voice seeping out uncontrollably. “Even if I did, anaphylaxis sounds like a better option than the one I’ve been presented with.” My glare shifts from him to the ceiling.
Milo ignores the venom in my words and moves closer. The mattress dips slightly under his weight as he takes a seat beside me. He scoops up a forkful of scrambled eggs, the steam rising into the air.
“You act like this is a death sentence,” he observes calmly, extending the fork towards me.
“Isn’t it?” I scoff.
My body tenses. The anticipation of conflict is almost as excruciating as the need to empty my bladder. But instead of anger or force, there’s a pause. He watches me silently, which I find more unnerving. The seconds stretch on, filled only with the sound of our breathing and the distant noise of the city beyond these walls that are both my prison and apparently my new home.
Milo’s expression doesn’t flicker, the stoic mask firmly in place. “No, and you should be grateful he didn’t kill you; he doesn’t show mercy much, or at all usually,” he states, his voice devoid of warmth.
“Grateful?” The word feels like ash on my tongue. I tilt my chin up defiantly. “This is mercy? Being handcuffed and told your only purpose is to warm the bed of not one but two strangers who don’t care if my family and I live or die? That seems pretty cruel to me,” I snap, my furious gaze meeting his unflinching one.
He sighs, the sound heavy with something I can’t decipher. His hand moves, cool and steady, as he brings the fork closer to me. Despite the situation, despite the gnawing fear and anger, my body betrays me with its basic needs. My stomach grumbles, an embarrassing acknowledgment of my hunger.
“Open up,” he commands softly, the edge of a demand lacing his tone. It’s clear he won’t let this back-and-forth continue indefinitely, so for now, I obey.
I part my lips reluctantly, only because I’m afraid he’ll stab me with the fork if I refuse. As I chew, I can’t help but feel the absurdity of it all.
Milo watches me, his eyes scanning my face for god only knows what.
The food sits heavily in my stomach, a reminder of my utter dependence on them. They could end me easily, and I would be completely defenseless to do anything about it. But defiance still simmers within me, a burning need to assert some control over my fate, however small it may be.
“Is this all I am now? A pet to be fed and be kept?” I ask, unable to keep the tremble from my voice. The reality of my situation washes over me anew with each passing second, leaving me feeling raw and exposed. It has nothing to do with the fact I’m mostly naked besides some underwear they’ve put on me and my blood-ruined top. I don’t even want to think of whose underwear I’m wearing, which poor woman had to sacrifice her knickers for me. I cringe, hoping they are at least clean.
Milo doesn’t answer right away, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that feels like a physical touch. “You’re alive, Fallon. Remember that,” is all he says before picking up another forkful of eggs.
“Alive,” I echo hollowly, the word tasting like a lie on my tongue. Alive, perhaps, but at what cost? Yet when he presses the fork to my lips, I shake my head, not because I can’t eat more but because I am at serious risk of wetting myself.
“I need to pee.”
Milo’s gaze softens for just a moment as it follows the lines of my body, tethered to the bed like some kind of animal. There’s a hesitancy in his touch, a gentleness that doesn’t fit with the hardness of his jaw, the coldness in his eyes as he settles his hand on my thigh.
“Fine,” he grunts, pushing away from the bed. His hand moves to the key sitting next to the lamp where Leone sat it earlier, and I can’t help but watch every motion—calculating, slow, deliberate—like he’s trying to convince himself it’s safe to remove the cuffs.
“You won’t run,” he says, hovering over me. I bite my lip and rattle the handcuffs when he grips my face. “Say it,” he all but growls at me in warning.

FALLON
“I won’t run,” I tell him, though that is a lie because the moment I know my sister is out of the hospital and my father and her are far away from the city, I intend to do just that. I just need to figure out how to get in contact with them, so I know where they’ll be before we disappear.
As he unlocks the cuffs, my wrist cracks in relief, though the rest of me remains tense, coiled tight as a spring. I rub at the red marks left behind awkwardly with my bad hand, glaring at him, yet one question has lingered in the back of my mind from the moment he stepped into the room. “Why did you do it?”
“Do what?” His voice is even, betraying nothing, but his jaw tightens just so.
“Help me when Leone…” I trail off, unable to say it. He shifts, a sudden tension in his broad shoulders, and looks away—a crack in his composed facade.
“Leone said you used to watch me through the cameras. How long?” The words tumble out before I can rein them back, and the thought of his eyes on me all this time

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