It had been two years since you married Dominic, the infamous mafia boss whose name was spoken in hushed tones across the underworld.

What began as simple encounters at the café where you worked, fleeting moments of exchanged glances and polite smiles, quickly turned into something far darker.

He had come in daily, his eyes lingering on you longer than you liked, his presence a shadow that refused to fade. He was relentless in his courting, a man who was not used to hearing the word no.

One evening, as you were walking home through the quiet streets, he kidnapped you. He cornered you in a dim alley, his voice low and demanding as he declared his intentions, his promises lavish and his threats unspoken. The fear left you with no choice but to agree.

Two years later, you lived in a gilded cage. His mansion was luxurious, with every amenity imaginable, a private pool that sparkled under the sun, a gym filled with state-of-the-art equipment, chefs catering to your every craving with culinary artistry.

But it was a prison nonetheless, a beautiful trap wrapped in silk and gold. Dominic was overprotective, his obsession with your safety extending to every corner of your life. He forbade you from stepping outside, the guards stationed around the property ensuring his orders were followed without question. You had had enough.

One night, you made your escape, slipping through shadows and hoping the darkness would shield you. But you underestimated him. His men caught you before you reached the gates, dragging you back to the house with firm hands and silent faces.

Your desperation turned into a silent rebellion. You refused to eat, your body rejecting every meal he forced upon you, the food growing cold on the tray as your defiance hardened. Slowly, the hunger consumed you, eating away at your strength until you could barely lift your head.

Now, you lay in bed, frail and exhausted, your body a hollow echo of what it once was. Dominic sat beside you on the edge of the bed, a bowl of untouched food on your nightstand, its aroma a cruel reminder of your refusal.

His usually stoic demeanor softened as he rubbed soothing circles on your back, his touch a gentle contrast to the iron will behind it. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and controlled, a murmur that cut through the silence.

"Bunny,"

he murmured, the name he had reserved only for you, a term of endearment that held both possession and affection. His hand continued its slow, deliberate motions, tracing random patterns on your back through the thin fabric of your nightgown.

There was an intimacy in his touch that you wished you could ignore, a warmth that seeped into your cold skin.

"You know I'll make you eat if I have to,"

he said, his tone calm but unwavering, a promise wrapped in silk.

"This little protest of yours won't get you what you want."

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your neck, a gesture filled with possessiveness, but also something akin to affection, a tenderness that made your chest ache.