I'd pressed the keys into Elliot's hands and allowed him behind the wheel of my car, knowing I'd swallowed back several more drinks that he had; his movements were far more controlled than my own. While he drove, I couldn't help but stare at him, longing to kiss him and be kissed in return. I wasn't accustomed to showing affection, but I craved it intensely, especially in such moments. I was tempted to ask him to pull over and give in to my feelings right there on the car hood. Instead, I knelt on the seat and kissed his neck while he kept one hand on the wheel, his other hand exploring my body.

I didn't give much thought to showing him around the house. He parked outside and admired the place for a few moments before I took his hand and led him inside. Then, as though a habit, I pulled him up the stairs, stripping pieces of his clothing along the way. As he kissed my neck, I tried to consider where I was leading him; desperate to to avoid certain rooms. My bedroom especially was a sanctuary, a refuge from the pervasive death and sex that tainted many other parts of the house. I allowed no one to enter without explicit reasoning and permission.

I must have seemed lost because he began guiding me to a room. Overwhelmed with emotions, I allowed this to happen, failing to grasp the significance of my compliance. Elliot manoeuvred us into the same room I had occupied the night before. As he pushed me onto the bed, I noticed that Diana had freshened the room with new curtains, sheets, and updated furnishings. She must have done this while we were out this evening—she often busied herself with decorating and cleaning.

What caught me off guard was the knife I could see hidden in the bed frame to the left of the pillow. I must have left it there last night, but it was strange that Diana had missed it. I would have to ensure my eyes weren't drawn back to the blade throughout the night.

My attention returned to Elliot. He stood above me, wearing only his boxer shorts, his eyes drinking in every inch of my body. Luckily for me, I relished prying eyes, but the lack of touch from a potential sex partner was insufferable. I reached out my hand to him and smiled when he took it without hesitation. Pulling myself up from the bed, I leaned my head against his chest. I had missed holding someone so warm and alive. I stood still for a moment, breathing softly and listening to the sound of his heartbeat.

I pulled away from him and sauntered to the foot of the bed. Naturally, he followed, likely yearning for more than just kissing by this point. Slowly, I began to unzip my dress, savouring the moment as he stood silently before me. I was accustomed to having men hang on my every word, but Elliot was different—untrained and impatient. His body language betrayed his desire, and I relished the thought of making him plead.

As I undressed, my focus wavered, and my gaze drifted to the unlit fireplace. It served as a stark reminder that my passion for tonight's endeavour had waned. Elliot's restless movements soon blocked my view, rekindling my desire for him.

Frustration surged when, instead of a pleading man, I faced one in control. He grabbed my arm and turned me around, unzipping the rest of my dress with aggressive determination. His desperation left me no time to comply, and with a few rough pulls, he tore the remaining material, ripping the dress from me.

As the shredded fabric fell to the floor, I trembled. I had never been in such a position before, and every instinct screamed at me to run. My violent urges, which usually dominated my actions, seemed to have vanished, leaving me powerless and exposed.

He turned me around, his fingers digging into my skin, leaving marks where he applied too much pressure. When we were face to face, I saw the darkness in his eyes—not the darkness of guilt, but the kind that comes with a thrill. I imagined how many men had seen this same look in my eyes. He released my arms and began removing his last piece of clothing.

My throat went dry. His left hand gripped the back of my neck, frantically pushing me down to my knees. My instincts screamed to push back, to run, to do anything but submit. Sensing my resistance, he spoke for the first time since entering my home. This was his first mistake in a series of many.

"Just get on your fucking knees, bitch," he shouted. Nearly nude, I stared up at him with a fear I had never felt in a bedroom before. My eyes dropped to what he was pushing towards me. He grabbed my arm again and pressed harder on the back of my head. "You'll love it. Don't make it difficult for both of us. You were thinking of doing exactly this when we talked at the bar."

I looked up at him towering over me. Just as I was about to give in, something inside me snapped. As he continued to spit insults, his fingers clenching my skin, the situation felt increasingly wrong and out of my control. Each passing moment intensified the pain in my stomach, a silent cry for help.

When I was younger, I developed an intense need for control. It started with simple things—what I wore, what I ate, what I did and with whom —but eventually, this need grew into an all-consuming force. I needed to dominate others, to make them bend to my will. I had never been controlled by anyone since then, only by myself. Whenever I lost control, I experienced a pain that was impossible to explain.

As he pushed me past my boundaries, something inside me snapped. I forced our positions to change—now he was in front of the bed, and I was by the fireplace. Acting on impulse, I shoved him forward. He fell, hitting his head on the wooden frame of the bed. I watched as he touched his head, checking for damage.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he barked, bringing his bloodied hand in front of his face. His tone had shifted dramatically; this was not the man I had taken from the bar. Tonight, I learned that words, more than actions, pushed me over the edge. Physical actions caused discomfort and stirred the demon within me, but words ignited it, fueling my imagination with ways to kill, torture, and break people.

"I wasn't feeling particularly murderous today, but you've changed my mind," I growled, backing away from him, the words dripping like venom. Quickly, I moved to the left side of the bed and grabbed the knife hidden there, my fingers closing around the familiar hilt. Over the years, I had perfected the art of sliding it into the side of my bra without injuring myself or cutting the fabric. Confident he wouldn't notice it, I walked back towards him, my mind racing with adrenaline-fueled clarity.

As I approached, I could see the mix of confusion and fear flicker in his eyes. He was beginning to understand that he had miscalculated, that he had underestimated me. With all my strength, I pulled him up from the floor. He resisted, muscles tensing as he tried to overpower me, but my urgency gave me an edge. The room seemed to shrink around us, focusing my resolve.

He ended up on his feet, immediately attempting to overpower me. I pressed my arm against his chest and used my other hand to pull out the knife. His eyes widened in alarm, a flicker of panic breaking through his aggressive facade. He tried to push me away, his movements frantic, but as he stepped back, I seized the moment.

If my passion had waned before, it surged back now. I crawled onto the bed and straddled his waist, looking into his eyes. They were filled with fiery anger—so undeniably male. Other men had lost this anger quickly under my manipulation, but this man epitomized strength and the human spirit. Tonight, he had preyed upon me, revealing his weakness to draw me in. He had been playing me, and I hadn't realized it.

With a swift, decisive motion, I drove the knife into him. The blade sank into flesh, a sickening resistance followed by a rush of warmth as blood spilt forth. His mouth opened in a silent scream, eyes wide with shock and pain. He staggered back onto the bed, collapsing onto the sheets.

I climbed onto the bed, straddling his waist, and pinning him down. The power dynamic had shifted completely, and I relished the control I now held. His once defiant eyes were now filled with fear and confusion, his strength waning with each passing second. I looked into his eyes, holding his gaze as I twisted the knife, ensuring he understood that he had lost, that he was at my mercy.

He gasped, blood bubbling from his lips as he tried to speak. His hands weakly grasped at my wrists, but his strength was fading fast. I pulled the knife from his chest, and any remaining humanity vanished as blood gushed out. I began stabbing him repeatedly, matching the number of times his fingers had marked my skin. I couldn't stop. The animal inside me wanted to tear him apart, to butcher every part of him. I drove the knife into him recklessly, panting and growling, any sound my body could make pouring out in torrents.

When his chest and stomach were completely red and my frenzy had subsided, I sat back and stared at the mess I had made. His blood splattered on me, and the walls, and even seeped onto the floor. As I dropped the knife, I started to heave. Tears filled my eyes, and the smell of blood seemed to permeate everything. It was on my skin, in the air, on every piece of furniture. My head throbbed, and I felt my body growing weaker with each breath. My blood-splattered underwear clung heavily to my skin, and everything below my waist was drenched in the sticky substance.

When my frenzy had subsided, his chest and stomach were completely red. I sat back and stared at the mess I had made, the adrenaline rush beginning to fade. The room seemed eerily silent, the only sound was my ragged breathing. I tried to process what I had done, but my mind was a chaotic blur. I glanced around the room, now a scene of carnage. The stark contrast between the pristine furnishings and the blood-stained chaos was jarring.

I heard footsteps approaching, slow and hesitant.

"Angel?" Luke's voice calls out, filled with concern as he enters the room. I can sense his unease as he catches a whiff of the blood, his nose scrunching up, and his gaze dropping slightly. As he approaches, I can see the dread in his widened eyes, his nervousness palpable as he hesitates, as if unsure how to proceed. The tears have smudged my makeup, my once-flawless facade now a mess, with eyeshadow fading and mascara streaking from earlier tears and kisses.

"What happened, Angel?" he whispers, disbelief evident in his voice.

"He tried to take away my control. He gripped me and pushed me around. He took everything that made me away from me. I couldn't handle it." I choke out, my voice strained with emotion. Looking down at my blood-stained thighs, I feel the bed shift as Luke's weight joins me. His hand gently lifts my chin, turning my face towards his, I feel him wiping at my cheeks, and slightly at my forehead, trying his best to wipe away the tears and blood with a tenderness that contrasts sharply with Elliot's violence.

"Just breathe, Angel. You put too much on yourself," he murmurs, pulling me closer, his embrace a sanctuary from the chaos brewing in my mind. My body relaxes against his, the tension draining away.

"You can't handle sleeping with a man you haven't gotten your teeth into straight away," he continues, his words sinking in. Perhaps he's right. I've never been one for casual encounters, preferring the control and manipulation of a more drawn-out seduction.

I would find men in bars, completely intoxicated and open to suggestions. Then I usually had to keep them in the dungeon for a few days to a week with the flow of constant alcohol and manipulating them with the promises of sex. Then when they attempted to take control of me or beg their way out of it, they'd be tied up and starved. Sometimes with men that were extra resistant, I'd have an old friend come by and trance them into being submissive. Eventually, they all got used to the idea of being my pet. They'd be rewarded for doing as I said and punished for breaking the rules.

Luke's arms envelop me, offering comfort and solace as he carries me to the nearest bathroom. A warm, inviting bubble bath awaits, evidence that either Luke or Diana has been looking out for me. Settling into the water, I let the warmth soothe my weary body, the red stain of blood swirling around me.

I linger in the bath longer than usual, the water turning more crimson with each passing minute. Eventually, exhaustion overtakes me, and I drift into a restless sleep. When I awaken, I find myself back in bed, Diana watching over me with concern, a sight that had become more familiar in this newfound cycle of vulnerability.

"Miss Angelina," her voice is delicate as she addresses me. I push myself up against the headboard, and she offers me a steaming cup of green tea.

"I know the night has been troublesome, but I don't believe this can wait any longer," she continues, settling at the foot of the bed. I take a sip of the tea and gesture for her to proceed.

"I know I previously insisted that Florence handle her catch alone, but I'm afraid she's not managing as well as she should," I mull over the realization that perhaps I hadn't adequately prepared Florence for the responsibility of managing a catch-all on her own. Though I had sensed it was too early for her to handle it solo, her infectious enthusiasm had clouded my judgment. I hadn't given her a second thought when deciding to leave with Elliot; I hadn't even arranged transportation for her to return home.

"Where is he?" I interject.

"He's already in the dungeon, Angelina," Diana's voice is gentle, and I sit up in bed. I feel as though someone has tended to me while I slept; my skin is clean as if I had been bathed without my knowledge, "She had him drugged the moment she stepped into the house. Though she seemed a bit preoccupied, it might have been because Luke expressed concern for you," she continues, and I respond with a heavy sigh.

"I suppose I can see him, but I feel obligated to visit The Greenery today," I murmur, and Diana nods in understanding.

"If you're not feeling up to it, I can call ahead and request a rescheduling, Miss," she offers.

"Thank you for the offer, Diana, but I believe they've waited longer than anticipated already," I reply, acknowledging her bright and cheerful demeanour as she moves away from the bed. Despite her warmth, I find myself unable to muster a smile in return.

"I'll be in the kitchen preparing a little something to eat, even though it's still early," she says before hurrying out of the room. As she leaves, I slowly extricate myself from the bed. Surprisingly, the covers aren't twisted around me today, allowing me to move freely. Glancing down, I realize I'm clad in a more conservative nightgown than usual, a choice likely influenced by Florence's penchant for modest attire.

With a sigh, I reach for a dark shawl, wrapping it snugly around my shoulders as a sudden chill pervades the house. Mentally bracing myself for the potential chaos that Florence may have left in her wake, I steel myself for what awaits in the dungeon.

Demesne; dominion or territory.