You look up at the man standing before you — the man who had stolen you from your life. Josh.

His knuckles run slowly down your jaw, almost tender, as if he hadn’t ripped you away from everything you knew.

“How are you, pretty girl?” Josh asks softly, his voice a low, dangerous purr.

You should be afraid. You should be fighting. But instead, you find yourself leaning into his touch, craving the strange warmth he offers.

“Good,” you whisper, voice almost shy.

He hums in approval, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering a little too long. Obsession burns in his dark eyes — raw, possessive, unstoppable.

“Do you love me, sweet thing?” he murmurs, tilting his head with a soft smile.

“Of course,” you giggle, and the sound feels too natural, too easy.

Josh smiles wider, his expression so full of pride it makes your stomach twist. He leans down and presses a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead, his arms slipping around you like chains made of silk.

“Stockholm syndrome, already,” he whispers against your skin, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “How exquisite.”