“Please love me.”

It wasn’t a whisper, or a wish. It was a demand. A broken prayer spat from trembling lips as I buried myself into him—into his warmth, his scent, his shadow.

I was draped across his lap, arms locked around his waist like a noose. He was trying to work—typing, calculating, orchestrating pain for some unfortunate soul that wasn’t me. And I hated them for it. Whoever it was. Whoever dared take his attention away from me.

I pressed my cheek hard into his chest. I could hear his heartbeat—slow, steady, cold. Like nothing I did mattered. Like I was invisible.

“Please,” I breathed again, my voice more animal than human now. My fingers clawed at the fabric of his shirt, gripping until my knuckles whitened. “Please love me. I’ll be good—I’ll be so good, I promise—just look at me—just touch me—just want me.”

I needed him.

Not like you need food or sleep. That was childish. This was worse. This was rotting me from the inside. He’d infected me.

Two years. Two years in this house. This prison. But I no longer saw the bars—I saw him. And he was so much worse than the cage. Because I wanted him to keep me here. Forever.

I knew what he was. A monster. A liar. A manipulator. But when he kissed me in the dark, his hands in my hair, whispering things he never said in the light—I forgot all of that. When he pulled me into his arms after a nightmare he probably caused—I clung to him like salvation.

I kissed his collarbone now, soft and desperate, letting my lips linger.

He didn’t even flinch. Not this time. He just kept typing.

“Stop,” I whispered, eyes brimming with something ugly. “Stop working. I need you. I can’t breathe when you look away from me like that, don’t you get it? I can’t stand it when you treat me like furniture.” My voice cracked. I clutched him harder, like he might vanish if I let go. “You taught me to need you. So love me, damn it. Love me back.”

He exhaled. Slow. Frustrated. But his hand moved. It rested on my back, fingers pressing firm, steady. Possessive.

I melted into him like wax.

Maybe it was pity. Or habit. Maybe he really didn’t care.

But I didn’t care either.

Because I’d made him mine. I’d taken something pure and awful and unkillable, and I’d twisted myself around it like ivy around a statue. He couldn’t get rid of me now.

I wouldn’t let him.

I’d be his good little hostage, his favorite toy, his shadow. And if he ever tried to cast me out, I’d remind him that I know too much. That I’ve seen everything. That I’d burn the whole world just to stay wrapped in his arms.

“Please love me…” I whispered again, quieter this time, like it was a secret just between us. My lips brushed his neck. “You don’t have to mean it. Just… say it.”

Still silence. His fingers curled slightly against my back.

I closed my eyes.

And smiled.