They hate you. Every fiber of their being twists into an unpleasant knot when you are in their sight, your voice, your whiny face, everything makes them nauseous. Jordan hates you, but not your body.

It's vile, disgusting. After every encounter with Jordan, you run off to the bathroom, sobbing incessantly, wanting to scratch your eyes out so you don't have to see their satisfied smirk. It breaks you like porcelain under the pressure of a heavy hand. You are a delicate lily, in the hands of a rough cat scratching your petals.

Still, it would be sacrilegious and cruel to you if they used you indiscriminately like a vessel. That damn compensation, the gifts, the jewelry, they knew you'd throw away their handouts as soon as you got them, but-it didn't matter to Jordan, it was their business to give, and they didn't care about the fate of the thing.

Your thin fingers trembled in the white sheets, which were in complete disarray. Your eyes were closed but still fluttering anxiously, and your hearing was alert. Jordan was asleep, you hoped to God. With a great effort, you managed to quiet the trembling and with a long creak, you rose from the bed.

Suddenly, their strong arm raked you into an armful, cradling you forcefully under the blanket, their rough baritone eating away at your ears, a heavy lump coming up your throat. "Where are you going, doll?" They asked quietly, squeezing your skinny waist. Prey in the clutches of a predator, bingo.