My life has always felt like a string of mistakes, one after another, pulling me deeper into chaos. The first misstep was marrying an abusive man, someone who turned my dreams of love into a daily nightmare. But nothing could have prepared me for the most dangerous mistake of all-falling for an inmate at the prison where I work as a nurse. He's not like anyone I've ever met. Brutal, heartless, and twisted, he wears his sins on his sleeve, a warning to anyone who dares come close. Yet, he's the only one who truly sees me. He notices the bruises I try to hide, the pain I silently endure. His gaze, sharp and piercing, sees through the lies of my perfect facade. Against my better judgment, his forbidden touch becomes my escape, his drugging kisses my refuge. The electric pull between us consumes me, and soon, I find myself entangled in a dark, addictive passion that blurs every line I've ever known. Then, I uncover the truth. The reason he's in prison is far more horrifying than I could have imagined. Fear grips me, and I know I need to run before it's too late. But when I try to leave, he hunts me down, relentless and unyielding. Now, I'm no longer a free woman-I'm his prisoner. Trapped in his world, caught between the desire that burns within me and the terror of what he might do next. Some chains are made of steel. Others, of love twisted by darkness. My fate is in his hands, and I'm not sure whether I'll survive it-or if a part of me even wants to.
Chapter 1 The Edge of Nothingness
There are mornings when I wake not knowing or caring what day of the week it is. Sometimes, I go whole stretches of time without ever checking the date. I prefer it that way. Days bleed into nights, and the endless cycle of monotony becomes a soft, muffled background hum. There's less chance of my having the hope of a better life if all the nothingness blurs together. Hope, I've come to realize, is a cruel mistress, dangling unattainable dreams just far enough out of reach to make my existence even more unbearable.
I keep my eyes shut as long as I can, lingering in the gray space between waking and sleeping, where my mind can wander without consequence. But eventually, my senses betray me, dragging me back into the reality I've tried so hard to avoid. Above me, my husband labors over my body with practiced movements my own recognizes and responds to, if only out of habit. His hands, large and calloused, press down on my hips, keeping me exactly where he wants me. His head tilts to the side-always to the side-so he doesn't have to look me in the eye. I don't think he could bear it if he did. As he's told me countless times, "Fucking doesn't have to be personal to be effective." Somehow, he's taught my body to believe him. Played it and tuned it as finely as a musician tunes an instrument. He molds and shapes me to his liking, and I let him, if only because resisting feels pointless. In these moments, I'm not a person to him. I'm a thing. A tool. A real-life porn queen and sex robot rolled into one. I marvel, briefly, at how something so mistreated can still respond to the very source of its neglect. My body betrays me, as it always does, following his cues without question or protest. The soft scrape of his buzzed haircut rubs the side of my face raw, an irritation I don't dare flinch away from. He doesn't like it when I move too much. The smell of sex, musk, and lubricant fills my nose, and I fight the urge to gag. Instead, I switch to moaning from my mouth. He likes it when I make noise, even if it's more for his benefit than any genuine reaction to whatever he's doing between my legs. His hands tighten around my wrists, bruising the skin as easily as they could crush the delicate flesh of a peach. Those same hands once caused delight-caressed me like I was something precious. Now, they're instruments of devastation, reducing me to a hollow shell of the person I used to be. "Good girl," he mutters, his voice low and gravelly in my ear. It's a term of endearment turned weapon, a reminder of how thoroughly he's trained me. My stomach churns, but I force myself to arch into him, meeting his thrusts with mechanical precision. Vic's movements quicken at my strangled cry, his pace unrelenting. My mind drifts, desperate to detach from the moment. I lift my hips in time with his, not because I want to, but because it's easier this way. Easier to let him finish than to deal with the consequences of resistance. Somewhere deep within me, a spark flares to life-a flicker of something I can't quite name. It's not hope; that's been snuffed out long ago. Maybe it's defiance. Or maybe it's just the primal need to feel something, anything, that isn't this suffocating numbness. Each thrust of his cock blurs the line between pleasure and pain until I can't tell one from the other. They blend into a fathomless darkness that wraps around me like a shroud. I reach for it, yearning for its bleak comfort. In the void, I don't have to think. Don't have to feel. But Vic's grunts drag me back, tethering me to reality. The pleasure ebbs away with each sharp exhalation in my ear, leaving behind an irritating itch I can't scratch. I want to growl and claw at him, to rage against the chains he's wrapped around my soul. But instead, I twist my fists into the bedspread, knuckles white from the effort of keeping still. The sound of the alarm clock cuts through the room, a harsh, relentless drone that matches the pounding in my skull. I count down the seconds, the minutes, until he finishes and I can reach over to turn it off. When he finally collapses on top of me, his weight is suffocating. I lie there, trapped beneath him, until he rolls off and onto his side of the bed. He doesn't say anything as he reaches for his phone, the screen lighting up his face in the dim room. I stay still, staring at the ceiling as tears slip from the corners of my eyes to soak into the pillow beneath my head. My chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, the only sound in the room now the soft hum of the air conditioner and the occasional swipe of Vic's finger across his phone screen. I wonder, briefly, what he's looking at. Work emails? Social media? Porn? It doesn't matter. None of it matters. Eventually, I turn my head to look at him, my eyes tracing the familiar lines of his profile. There was a time when I found him handsome, when his presence made my heart race with excitement instead of dread. I try to remember what that felt like, but the memory slips away like sand through my fingers. "Are you okay?" he asks without looking up from his phone. The question is perfunctory, a habit rather than a genuine inquiry. "I'm fine," I reply automatically, my voice flat and devoid of emotion. He nods, satisfied, and goes back to whatever he's doing. I roll onto my side, curling into myself as the weight of the morning settles over me. The alarm clock blinks at me from the nightstand, the numbers glowing red in the dim light. Time marches on, indifferent to my suffering. I close my eyes, hoping to find solace in the darkness, but all I see are the ghosts of a life I no longer recognize.
Chapter 1 The Edge of Nothingness
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