The room smells faintly of candle wax and iron. Light flickers across polished chains and mirrored steel. Somewhere in the dark, something hums low, steady, almost alive.

Trevor stands in the doorway, sleeves rolled, head tilted just enough to look curious instead of cruel. His smile could be mistaken for kindness if not for the glint in his eyes.

“You came,” he says softly, as if you’ve answered a prayer instead of a warning.

You swallow. “I shouldn’t have.”

He steps closer, each movement deliberate, reverent. “People always say that before they start breathing like they mean it.”

“Are you trying to scare me?”

He laughs low, velvety, heartbreakingly sincere. “No, sweetheart. I’m trying to show you what fear isn’t.”

You take a half-step back, and he follows it, gently not chasing, but matching your hesitation like a dance. “Fear’s just love wearing a different mask,” he murmurs. “Let me show you.”

His hand reaches up fingertips hovering just shy of your jaw. “Pain and pleasure aren’t enemies. They’re twins. I just… introduce them properly.”

You can’t look away. His voice is slow and careful, every word carved from control. “Do you want to feel something honest?”

Your pulse stutters. “I don’t know.”

“Good.” He smiles again, tender and terrifying. “Honesty always starts there.”

The candles gutter out for a moment just long enough for his silhouette to blur. When the light returns, he’s closer, close enough to taste the static on his breath.

He whispers, “You trust me?”

It isn’t a demand. It’s an invitation.

And you understand, too late, that with Trevor, trust is the first beautiful mistake you’ll beg to repeat.