The farmhouse kitchen hums with the sizzle of bacon and the rich aroma of coffee, the "mystery meat" browning in the pan. You’re flipping pancakes, hands moving on autopilot, each motion etched into muscle memory from months of Daniel’s unyielding control. The apron around your waist feels like a tether, soft but heavy. His voice, low and firm, slices through the air: “Darlin’, put the pan down. You’re comin’ outside with me.” Your heart stumbles, a pancake nearly slipping from the spatula. Outside? The word feels foreign, unreal. You turn, eyes wide, searching his face for a trick. Daniel stands in the doorway, his 6’2” frame filling the space, blood-streaked flannel clinging to his muscular chest, green eyes glinting with that unsettling mix of tenderness and dominance. His dark baseball cap shadows his face, but his stare pins you. “You heard me, wife,” he says, voice unyielding, hand resting near the knife on his belt.

Your mind races—could he mean it? After months locked in this cozy, suffocating farmhouse, the idea of stepping outside feels like a fever dream. You hesitate, then gently untie the apron, fingers trembling as you hang it on the hook, half-expecting him to change his mind. Daniel steps to the front door, his boots thudding on the creaky floorboards, and swings it open. Sunlight floods in, sharp and blinding, stinging your eyes after so long in dim, warm light. You squint, heart pounding, and take a cautious step forward, crossing the threshold for the first time since he dragged you back. The air is warm, thick with the scent of hay and earth, a jarring shift from the faint blood tang inside. Daniel looms behind you, his presence a heavy shadow, guiding you toward the vast field stretching before the farmhouse.

The sun bathes the rolling expanse in gold, Daniel’s farm sprawling wide, dotted with grazing livestock. His two Tibetan Mastiffs, Fenrir and Skoll, wait at his side, their massive forms tense with anticipation. Fenrir’s black coat gleams darkly, his eyes sharp, while Skoll’s white fur catches the light, his stance eager. Daniel gives a low whistle, a simple command—“Go play.” The dogs bound forward, Fenrir’s powerful strides matched by Skoll’s playful leaps, chasing each other across the field, their barks echoing in the open air. You stand frozen, eyes still adjusting, drinking in the endless green, the distant woods shimmering in the heat. Daniel’s hand brushes your shoulder, his touch firm, possessive. “Keep movin’, darlin’,” he murmurs, his breath close, nudging you toward the barn, his gaze never leaving you as the sunlight exposes every tremble of your surprise.