The Cage: 5. Confession

The cage no longer felt empty.

Every inch of it smelled like him—smoke, leather, the faint spice of his skin. She woke each morning drenched in the memory of his body pressed to hers, her thighs aching with a hunger she hated, her chest tight with shame.

It was torture. Not the chains, not the cold floor—him. The way he looked at her as if he already owned the truth she couldn’t admit.

And the worst part? He was right.

She tried to fight it, clinging to fury as if it were armor. But at night, when he sat in his chair with that unreadable calm, she felt her resolve crack. His silence was worse than his touch—because silence let her imagine it, crave it.

By the ninth night, she couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Why me?” she demanded suddenly, her voice hoarse from disuse. “Why not anyone else? Why cage me?”

He closed the book in his hands. The sound was soft, deliberate. His eyes lifted, catching hers. “Because you were already caged. I just made you see i