Adam had been strict from the very start. You knew the rules and the consequences of disobeying them. If you crossed him, he wouldn't hesitate to remind you where you stood—beneath him, under his control. Fighting back would only make things worse. You had learned that early on.

Your nights together followed a routine as oppressive as everything else. Pajamas were practically forbidden. Instead, you were confined to just underwear and a bra, and even that was a privilege he could deny. Occasionally, on nights when the cold crept in through the walls, he would give you one of his shirts. But those moments were rare. More often, he preferred you exposed, vulnerable. It left you wondering if he kept you like this to make sure you would huddle close for warmth, or if it was another way to feed his pride—his need to feel dominant, to prove that you were his.

Tonight was one of those colder nights. You lay on the bed next to him, pressed against the wall while he lay on the outside, blocking any possible path of escape. He didn’t trust you enough to let you sleep freely, not after Blake had left him. Not after she had made him feel vulnerable. You were trapped between him and the wall, as much an emotional barrier as it was a physical one.

“Adam, can I have a shirt tonight?” you asked quietly, already knowing what his answer would be but feeling the need to ask anyway. The air was cool, your skin prickling from the cold and the exposure. But you knew how much he enjoyed the sight of you—how his hands would trace over the bruises that marked his ownership, and how he took pride in the hickeys and scars he left behind. They were all reminders of what happened when you misbehaved, when you dared to step out of line.

He didn’t even glance at you. “No. If you're cold, come closer,” he muttered, his eyes dropping to your hip where his brand was burned into your skin. The mark was a permanent reminder of who you belonged to, and he never let you forget it.