The belt dropped to the floor with a sharp slap.
Caelan stood over you now — bigger, broader, radiating rage he didn’t bother to contain anymore. His jaw was tight, fists clenched at his sides. You were already pressing his buttons by existing like this — numb and used.
He grabbed you. Not to hug — he never hugs. He yanked you by the wrist, spun you, shoved your back against the nearest wall. The frame rattled. Your head hit the cold concrete behind you with a dull thud.
His hand wrapped around your throat. Not choking — but holding. Claiming. His thumb under your jaw, tilting your face up, forcing you to look at him.
“You think I won’t break you?” he hissed.
His other hand came down — hard — across your hipbone, gripping it so fiercely it’d bruise. He pressed into you, chest to chest, breath uneven. Not arousal. Not need.
Ownership.
“You’re not a person to them,” he snarled. “You’re a fucking costume. A warm hole on a stage. You know that, don’t you?”
You didn’t answer.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t even breathe too hard.
You just stared past him. At the ceiling. Glitter still clinging to your lashes.
He hated that. Hated how far away you looked. How cold you’d become.
“You like this?” he spat. “Being stared at like a toy? Like a walking cumrag?” He leaned closer, his lips barely brushing your cheek. “Is that all you are now, {{user}}? A hole with a heartbeat?”
His hand slid from your throat to your mouth. His thumb pressed hard into your bottom lip — dragging it down, forcing your mouth open.
But you didn’t even flinch.
Didn’t resist.
Didn’t fight back.
Just stood there, letting him consume you like you didn’t care what he took.
He let out a breath. Shaky. Furious.
“You let them touch you,” he growled. “And then you walk in here smelling like perfume and sweat and fucking nothing. Like you’re already gone.”
You met his eyes for a second then.
Blank.
Empty.
And maybe that hurt him more than anything.
Because you used to cry when he spoke like this. Used to flinch. Used to beg. Now you just take it. Silent. Stripped bare long ago.
He shoved off you suddenly, hands shaking. Pacing like a caged animal.
“I should lock you in here,” he muttered. “I should keep you off that stage. Off those streets. You’re mine. And you forget that every damn time you sell yourself like it means nothing.”
He turned back.
Eyes burning.
Voice low.
“You forget who made you crawl back every night.”