Romance

FALLON
“Milo?” The question slips out, despite not wanting to voice it.
Leone’s lips curve into a smirk, as if he relishes my apprehension. “Yes, Milo has taken quite an interest in you. And I must admit, his fascination has made me reconsider your fate.”
His confession sends my mind reeling. The idea of being shared, of submitting to not just Leone but Milo as well, is daunting. Yet, there’s an undeniable thrill that accompanies the fear, a curiosity about the depths of my own desires. I shake my head at the thought. What is wrong with me?
“What was the other option for my fate?” I ask.
“Pimping you out until you paid the money back, then probably death,” he says casually. I stare at him. Both of those scenarios sound terrifying, leaving me to wonder if I’m better off in this man’s hands than being passed around. The devil you know and all… Either way, it sounds to me like it will have 

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
My eyelids flutter open, rebelling against the harsh light that assaults my senses. I blink against the heaviness in my head, the world coming into focus with cruel clarity. The ache that permeates every inch of my flesh is a reminder of the ordeal I’d endured, the bruises painting a mosaic of pain on my skin. My breaths are shallow gasps, each one laced with the sharp twinge of battered ribs protesting my movement and the aching of my shoulder that worsens with each breath. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this sore in my life.
Groaning, I try to lift my hand to my temple, which throbs in sync with a pounding headache. But for some reason, I find my movement abruptly halted. Panic surges as I realize I’m chained to the bed, one wrist locked tightly in a handcuff. My breath quickens, fear clawing at my chest as the claustrophobic feeling accelerates, reminding me of walls closing in. I frantically tug at the restraint, which does nothing but cause the chain to rattle uselessly. It’s futile. The handcuffs are securely fastened, leaving me trapped and vulnerable.
For a moment, the old terror threatens to overwhelm me—the stifling, crushing fear of confinement. But I force myself to breathe, to focus on the differences, not the similarities. It’s just a handcuff, not a small, dark room. There’s light here; this isn’t the same. I can live with being handcuffed; it’s the dark that truly terrifies me. This mental mantra helps against the rising panic, anchoring me back to a bearable reality.
“Wha—?” The word is barely a whisper, my throat raw and parched. I blink rapidly, trying to clear the fog that seems to cling to my vision, only to find I am not anywhere I’ve seen before. I have no memory of this room, but it looks too fancy for a cheap hotel where I will be potentially pimped out by Leone.
The ceiling draws my attention, the patterns and carvings are something that look like they belong in a museum, vastly different from my bland bedroom with its cobwebs in the corners and clothes strewn about carelessly. This is not my room. This is not my bed.
My heart lurches, and panic sets in as I struggle against the bindings at my wrists, disconcertingly hard against the rawness of my skin. The vast expanse of the king-sized bed beneath me feels more like a jail than a place of rest. I writhe, twisting to look over my shoulder, the blonde waves of my hair falling messily across my face, only to find massive bay windows lining the walls. I try to sit up, but the pull on my ankles has me looking down to find the same bindings tied to them. The only arm free is the one in a sling, and otherwise useless to me.
Just then, a voice breaks the silence, making me turn my head. “About time.” Leone’s deep, baritone voice has me freezing as I look for him.
My eyes rake over the room, taking in the plush crimson carpet that seems to drown the floor in blood and the ornate furnishings that mock me with their stillness. I spot him sitting in an armchair in the corner, his foot resting on his knee as he casually reads a newspaper as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
“I was wondering when you would wake up,” he states, calmly turning the page as if my captivity is the most normal thing in the world.
His dark hair is neatly styled, his clothes are crisp and expensive, not a thing out of place. His eyes, piercing, glance up at me before returning to the paper.
His nonchalant demeanor only fuels my panic. I’m at his mercy, a prisoner in this luxurious yet suffocating room. The realization hits me hard—I am completely under Leone’s control, and there’s nothing I can do about it. What does he want with me? And what will he do now that he has me?
“Why am I tied to the bed, remove the handcuffs.” I give a hasty yank, regretting the decision instantly as pain slivers along every limb.
“Once you can be trusted, you can leave the room by yourself,” Leone says, an edge of finality cutting through its previous softness.
“Trusted?” I echo, incredulous. “You kidnap me, handcuff me, and now you want my trust?”
“Fallon, think about where you are. This isn’t some back-alley kidnapping. You agreed to this.”
“I did not agree to be chained to a damn bed!” I yank on my hand and try to kick my feet, but it is a futile attempt. I’m not going anywhere unless he lets me.
His dark eyes meet mine and glint with satisfaction. The very sight sends a shiver down my spine, igniting a fiery mix of fear and defiance deep within me.
“Fallon,” his voice, cool and collected, cuts through the silence, sending a jolt through my already frayed nerves. “The more you fight, the longer you’ll wear them.”
“Let me go,” I demand, my voice steadier than I feel. Each word is a battle, pride clashing with the panic clawing at my chest.
“As I said, once you can be trusted,” he replies, his tone infuriatingly calm. “You’re not ready to roam free on your own… yet.”
Despite my initial resistance, a part of me knows that outright defiance won’t secure my freedom. Instead, I must bide my time and be patient.
“Fine,” I concede, my voice full of defeat. “What do you want from me? What does ‘trust’ even mean in this place?”
A flicker of surprise crosses Leone’s face, his interest piqued by my change in tactic. “Trust,” he muses, setting aside the paper and fixing his gaze on me, “means understanding your place here. It means recognizing the opportunity I’m offering you.”
Opportunity? The word feels like a mockery in my current state, yet I can’t help but be curious. “What ‘opportunity’ would that be?” I ask, skepticism lacing my words.
Leone stands, his movements graceful and deliberate, as he approaches the bed. “An opportunity for power, Fallon. To rise above your current circumstances. But first, you must learn. Learn the rules of this world, learn who truly holds the power.”
“Opportunity? While strapped to a bed?” I scoff.
“You’re not strapped to any bed Fallon, you’re strapped to mine, that alone holds power in my world. I don’t let many women in my bed. I certainly don’t share them. You betrayed me, your father betrayed me, now you owe me.”
“Care to share this so-called power because this option isn’t one I’d choose for myself, and I feel pretty damn powerless right now!” I snap at him, shaking my bound wrist.
Leone’s gaze sharpens, the air charged with a tension that’s both threatening and electrifying. “What I want from you, Fallon, is simple,” he begins, his voice low and commanding. “Your complete submission. I want to own every inch of you and in every way.”

FALLON
“Milo?” The question slips out, despite not wanting to voice it.
Leone’s lips curve into a smirk, as if he relishes my apprehension. “Yes, Milo has taken quite an interest in you. And I must admit, his fascination has made me reconsider your fate.”
His confession sends my mind reeling. The idea of being shared, of submitting to not just Leone but Milo as well, is daunting. Yet, there’s an undeniable thrill that accompanies the fear, a curiosity about the depths of my own desires. I shake my head at the thought. What is wrong with me?
“What was the other option for my fate?” I ask.
“Pimping you out until you paid the money back, then probably death,” he says casually. I stare at him. Both of those scenarios sound terrifying, leaving me to wonder if I’m better off in this man’s hands than being passed around. The devil you know and all… Either way, it sounds to me like it will have the same ending eventually. The only difference is instead of being pimped out to everyone, I am bei

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