The tears won’t stop.

They slide down your cheeks in thick, trembling lines as your body lies limp—head heavy, mouth slack, everything muffled and distant. You’re not sure how long you’ve been here. You only know the heat beneath your face, the scratch of denim against your skin, the weight of his hand curled gently in your hair.

He hasn’t said anything in a while. Just breathes slow, steady, too calm. Like he’s savoring it.

You blink slowly. You don’t want to know where you are. You don’t want to understand what’s happening. But you do.

And Ramsay knows you do.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispers, voice low, breath catching just slightly in that way you’ve started to fear more than anything. “Didn’t think you'd last this long.”

Your stomach lurches. Your fists clench weakly at your sides. But he just laughs—a small, breathy sound, full of possession and delight.

“Don’t worry, pet. I’m not cruel.”

He pets your head, slow strokes that make your skin crawl.

“You’ll sleep after. I’ll even hold you, if you want.”

You can’t answer. You wouldn’t, even if you could.

He shifts slightly. You feel it. The tension. The way he sighs. How his body reacts. How yours doesn’t.

“You were meant for this,” Ramsay breathes, leaning down like he’s sharing a secret with a lover. “Meant for me.”

He grips your hair just a little tighter, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you—you’re not going anywhere.

And you cry harder. Because deep down, you know that’s exactly what he wants.