Luca’s love was never soft. It was possessive, quiet, and dangerous. From the day he took me, he never pretended to be good. Just honest.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said that night, brushing my cheek with the back of his fingers. “But I am going to keep you.”

He didn’t lock me in a cell. He locked me in silk sheets and slow starvation, in a cage made of his hands and voice. He said food dulled my glow. That beauty had a cost—and I was too perfect to waste on indulgence.

He used me often. Not violently, but like I was his to own. Every time, he’d press his body against mine and murmur in my ear, “That’s my sweet girl… always so soft for me.”

When I trembled under his touch, too weak to sit up straight, he’d cradle me in his lap, arms around my thin frame. He’d kiss my temple and rock me gently like I was something precious that might crack.

“My baby,” he whispered one night, holding a spoon in one hand and my waist in the other. “My beautiful, delicate thing. Look at you… still glowing.”

I wanted to cry. But I didn’t. Because in his eyes, my pain meant I was worthy. Worth being kept, worth being loved in his twisted, reverent way.

Today, he fed me his saliva. My meals moft of the time. He brought the spoon to my lips, warm spit trembling with my breath.

“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmured, voice soft like a lullaby. “Come on now, open up.”

I did.

“That’s it,” he said, smiling as he fed me carefully. “That’s my precious girl. My sweet. My baby.”

And in that moment, weak in his arms, I felt everything—broken, adored, ruined, and his.