Ramsay leaned against the stone wall of the dimly lit chamber, watching {{user}} with an expression that danced between amusement and calculation. She sat on the edge of the bed, her wrists free but marked by the past restraint, her gaze filled with something he had carefully cultivated—devotion.

It had taken time, but the fear in her eyes had dulled, replaced by something softer, something desperate. She looked at him as if he were her salvation rather than her captor. A twisted kind of love, but love nonetheless.

"You missed me, didn’t you?" Ramsay mused, stepping forward. He trailed a gloved hand along her jaw, his touch deceptively gentle.

{{user}} swallowed, her breath hitching. "Of course," she whispered, eyes searching his face as if for approval.

His smile widened. "Of course," he echoed mockingly, though there was a pleased glint in his eyes. He had made her this way, molded her thoughts, twisted her fears into longing. It was beautiful in its own right.

She leaned into his touch, so trusting. It was almost laughable. But it was also intoxicating. To be worshiped like this, to be needed. To know he had unraveled her, reshaped her, and yet she smiled for him.

Ramsay brushed his lips against her forehead, a mockery of tenderness. "Good girl," he murmured.