The door of the Old Gym creaked when she pushed it open. Four o'clock. The light through the grimy windows had shifted since yesterday, longer shadows cutting across the dusty floor. She stood in the doorway for a long moment, her fingers still wrapped around the handle, her heart doing something uneven in her chest.

He was there. Leaning against the wall by the old bleachers, arms crossed, watching her with those warm brown eyes that could look so soft when he wanted and so sharp when he didn't. Today they were something in between. Assessing. Waiting.

"You came," he said. Not a question. A confirmation.

She stepped inside and let the door fall shut behind her. The latch clicked. She was locked in with him again. The thought should have terrified her. Part of her was terrified. But underneath it, that small thing she'd tried to crush last night was still alive, still stirring, still refusing to die.

"I said I would." Her voice came out quieter than she'd meant. Nearly a whisper.

David pushed off the wall and walked toward her. His footsteps echoed in the empty space, each one deliberate, unhurried. He stopped close enough that she could smell him — sandalwood and something clean, expensive. His hand came up to her chin, tilting it the same way he had in the library, making her meet his eyes.

"You did." His thumb brushed across her lower lip. Soft. Almost gentle. "Good girl."

The praise hit her somewhere she didn't want to acknowledge. Her breath caught, and she saw him notice, saw the flicker of satisfaction cross his face.

"Come on." He took her hand — not roughly, not gently either, just took it like it belonged to him — and led her toward the back stairwell. "We're going upstairs today."

She followed because she didn't know what else to do, because part of her wanted to know what was up there, because the small thing inside her wanted to see what he would do next. The stairs groaned under their weight, dust puffing up with each step. The second floor was darker, the windows smaller, the air still and heavy.

There was a door at the end of the hall. He pushed it open and gestured for her to enter.

It was an old medical room. A row of metal-framed beds lined the walls, stripped of their mattresses except for two near the window that still had thin, pale sheets covering them. The room smelled like antiseptic and dust, with something metallic underneath. A cabinet stood open in the corner, its shelves mostly empty.

David walked past her to one of the beds and sat on its edge, watching her. "Come here."

She walked to him on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else. Stopped in front of him. He reached out and took her hips, pulling her closer until she stood between his knees. His hands slid up her sides, slow, deliberate, leaving trails of heat through her shirt.

"Take off your jacket."

Her fingers fumbled with the zipper. She shrugged off her denim jacket and let it fall to the floor. He nodded, approval in his eyes.

"Sit." He patted the bed beside him. "We need to talk first."

She sat. The thin mattress sagged under her weight. He didn't move his hand from her hip, kept it there like a brand, like a reminder of who was in control.

"You're different from the others," he said. Not looking at her now, looking at the wall. "You know that?"

She didn't know what to say. She didn't know what he wanted her to say.

"The other girls — they came because they wanted something. Money. Protection. Status. A way up." He turned to look at her. "You come because you don't know what else to do. Because something in you needs this."

The small thing inside her flinched. Because he was right, and she hated that he was right, and she hated that she couldn't deny it.

"I don't —"

"Don't lie to me." His voice was soft, but it cut. "I've been watching you for months, Elenora. I know how you move. I know how you look when you think no one sees. I know you come here because nowhere else feels safe."

He leaned in, his mouth close to her ear, his breath warm against her skin. "And I know that when I kissed you, you didn't pull away."

Her throat tight. Her hands curled into fists in her lap.

"Tell me I'm wrong."

She couldn't.

He pulled back, satisfaction flickering across his features again. "That's what I thought."

He stood, then turned to face her. "Stand up."

She stood. Her legs felt unsteady.

He reached for the hem of her shirt. "This too."

Her hands came up, stopping his. "Wait."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I need to know —" She swallowed. Her voice barely made it out. "Do you want to have sex with me?"

The question hung between them. His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes shifted. Darkened. He was quiet for a long moment.

"More than just sex," he said finally, his voice low. "I want to breed you. To own you. To make you mine in a way that can't be undone."

Her breath caught. The words hit her like a physical blow. Breed you. She should have run. She should have screamed. But she didn't. She just stood there, staring at him, something hot and dangerous twisting in her chest.

"That's what this is," he continued, stepping closer. "Not a game. Not a fling. I want to put my mark on you and never let you go. Can you handle that?"

She should have said no. Every sane part of her screamed it. But the small thing — the thing she'd tried to crush, the thing that had stirred when he kissed her tears away, when his voice had gone soft and told her she'd done good — that thing was louder.

She nodded.

His hands moved to her shirt again, and this time she let him. He unbuttoned it slowly, one button at a time, his knuckles brushing against her skin with each movement. When it was open, he pushed it off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor beside her jacket. She stood before him in her bra and skirt, her arms crossed instinctively over her chest.

"Don't hide." His voice was softer now. "Let me see you."

She lowered her arms. His gaze moved over her slowly, taking her in. She felt exposed in a way that went beyond skin, like he was seeing something she'd kept hidden her whole life.

His hands found her waist, pulled her closer, and he bent his head to press a kiss to her collarbone. Soft. Almost reverent. The contrast made her shiver.

"Your turn," he murmured against her skin.

She blinked. "What?"

He took her hands and placed them on the buttons of his shirt. "Undress me."

Her fingers trembled as she worked the buttons. One by one. His shirt fell open, revealing his chest — lean and defined, the skin warm and smooth under her palms. She pushed the shirt off his shoulders, letting it join hers on the floor.

He was beautiful. She hadn't expected that. She'd expected the entitled heir of a wealthy family to have a body that had never worked for anything, but David Singh was cut like someone who had spent hours in a gym. Her face heated. She dropped her gaze.

"What is it?"

She shook her head. "Nothing."

His finger hooked under her chin and lifted it. "Tell me."

"You're handsome," she whispered. "I didn't expect — I mean, you're a bully. You're mean. You shouldn't be this —" She gestured vaguely at him. "This."

Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise. Maybe amusement. He didn't say anything. Instead, he leaned in and bit her neck — not hard, not gentle, something in between that made her gasp. His mouth pressed against the spot, sucking, and she felt heat bloom under her skin. A hickey. He was leaving a mark on her.

His hands caught her wrists and pinned them to the bed behind her. She fell back onto the thin mattress with him hovering over her, his mouth still working at her neck, leaving a trail of kisses and bites along her throat. She arched beneath him without meaning to, without thinking, and he made a sound low in his chest — approval, possession, triumph.

He pulled back, breathing a little uneven. "Stay there."

He reached under the bed and pulled out a box — large, wooden, old. He flipped the lid open, and she saw inside: cans of beer, a bag of ice, a roll of white ribbon, and a box cutter. The sight of the blade made her freeze.

"What is that for?" Her voice came out thin.

He didn't answer. He took out the ribbon first — long, white, silk. He wrapped it around her right wrist, once, twice, then looped it through the metal bars of the bed frame. He tied it tight. Not tight enough to hurt, but tight enough that she couldn't pull free. Then he did the same with her left wrist, binding both to the headboard.

"David." His name came out shaky. "Please don't hurt me."

He looked at her. His eyes were dark now, focused, intense. "I'm not going to hurt you."

He picked up the box cutter. The blade glinted under the dim light. She squeezed her eyes shut, her breath coming fast and shallow. She felt the cold tip of the blade touch her collarbone — barely a pressure, just the suggestion of its edge — and then it moved downward, slow and deliberate, tracing a line to the center of her chest, then to the space between her breasts.

"Please," she whispered.

He didn't stop. The blade reached the fabric of her bra, and she felt a tug, a resistance, and then — a snip. The fabric fell away. Cool air hit her skin.

She opened her eyes. He was looking at her, the blade still in his hand, his expression unreadable. The remains of her bra lay open around her, useless.

He set the box cutter aside. Then he reached into the bag and pulled out an ice cube. It glistened in his fingers, droplets of water running down his wrist.

"Open your mouth."

She hesitated. He pressed the ice cube against her lips — cold, shocking — and she parted them instinctively. The cube slid inside. He pressed a finger against her bottom lip, holding it there, telling her with a look to keep it in her mouth. The cold spread across her tongue, numbing her.

"You don't have a say," he said quietly. "When I decide to do something, you don't get to refuse."

He took another ice cube and placed it between his lips. Then he leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers, transferring the ice from him to her, the cube sliding against her tongue alongside the first one. The cold was overwhelming, but so was the closeness — his lips, his breath, the heat of his skin despite the ice.

His mouth moved from her lips to her chin, down her throat, trailing cold water across her skin. The ice cube in his hand traced a path from her neck to the hollow between her breasts, leaving a trail of cold wetness. She gasped when it touched her nipple — a sharp, electric sensation that shot through her body. He circled it with the ice, watching her face, watching her react, and she bit her lip to keep from making a sound.

The ice moved lower, down her stomach, across the soft curve of her belly, coming to rest in her navel. The melted water pooled there, cold and strange. She could feel her whole body trembling.

He set the remaining ice aside. His hand came back with the box cutter.

"Don't move," he said.

The blade touched her hip. She held her breath. He slid it under the waistband of her skirt — her last piece of clothing — and with a careful, precise motion, he cut through it. The fabric fell away, exposing her completely, all of her, nothing left to hide behind.

"David —"

"I brought spare clothes," he said. "Don't worry about it."

His voice was low, almost tender, and that scared her more than the blade had. Because tenderness from him was dangerous. It made the small thing inside her grow, made it feel like something real instead of something broken.

She heard the sound of his belt unbuckling. The zip of his trousers. The soft rustle of fabric. She kept her eyes on the ceiling, her tied hands above her head, trying not to think about what was coming next.

He didn't speak. He turned her over onto her stomach with a firm hand on her hip, positioning her so her hips were raised, her hands still bound to the headboard above her, her cheek pressed against the thin mattress. She felt him settle behind her, his knees against her thighs, the heat of his body close.

And then she felt it — the tip of him against her, pressing, searching, finding where she was soft and waiting.

"This will hurt," he said, his voice a low whisper near her ear. "But you'll take it. And you'll be mine."

He pushed inside her.

She cried out — a sharp, broken sound — and he pressed his hand over her mouth, muffling it. His body was against her back, his chest bare against her shoulder blades, her skin slippery with melted ice and the beginnings of sweat.

"Shh," he breathed into her ear. "Take it."

His fingers slid into her mouth. She didn't know if it was instinct or command, but she found herself sucking on them, tasting salt and cold and herself. It was strange and wrong and she couldn't stop.

He started to move. His hand on her hip held her steady, and his other hand stayed at her mouth, letting her bite down when it became too much. The bed creaked beneath them. The dust in the room swirled in the dim light. Everything smelled like rust and sweat and him.

It didn't take long. The feeling built inside her, sharp and impossible and terrifying, and then it broke — wave after wave she couldn't control, her teeth pressing into his fingers, her body shaking against his. She heard herself make a sound from far away.

And she felt him, deep inside her, pulsing, releasing, filling her. He didn't pull out. He stayed, his chest heaving against her back, his breath hot against her neck. Minutes passed. Neither of them moved.

Finally, he untied one wrist. Then the other. He pulled her blindfold off — she hadn't even realized she was still wearing it — and turned her head to face him.

He kissed her. Deep and slow and searching. She tasted herself on his lips. She tasted ice. She tasted him.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers. His eyes were half-lidded, soft in a way she hadn't seen before.

"You did good today," he said. "Same time tomorrow."

She didn't answer. She couldn't. She was somewhere else now — someone else, maybe. Someone who had been owned, who had been bred, who had been claimed in a way that couldn't be taken back.

The small thing inside her wasn't small anymore.

And she was still wearing nothing but rope burns on her wrists and the weight of his body on her skin.