The silence after I closed the door was a living thing. It pressed against my eardrums, a high-pitched hum of tension and unsaid words. I walked.
The hallway stretched before me, an endless tunnel of polished marble and cold, tasteful artwork.
Each step I took echoed, a solitary, hollow sound that seemed to mock my retreat. My hand still tingled where he'd held it, the ghost of his grip imprinted on my skin.
*I'll serve every wanting of yours.*
The words were a serpent, coiling in the base of my skull, hissing his promise. I couldn't outrun them. They were in my bloodstream.
He didn't follow. Didn't call my name. Didn't stop me.
He was letting me have my rebellion, my moment of defiance, knowing the cage door was open but I had nowhere to fly.
And God, I wanted him to follow. I wanted him to stride down this hall, grab my wrist, and pull me back into that room of pain and desire. I wanted the fight, the fury, the *something* that would break this awful, quiet tension.
