fragile threads
1763 Words
#Mina
Co.. convenient?
A poison, his words were to me—a blackened poison seeping into my veins—and I felt my throat tighten once more with the effort to hold back the display of emotion that threatened to break through. I tried to pull away again, but this time he released me before I could, stepping back as though he’d grown bored of the game. I stumbled, almost falling into the door as I grasped the handle behind me to steady myself.
“You’re pathetic,” I whispered. Not him. I wasn't talking about him.
But he heard. He always did.
"You are bloody pathetic, Mina." He repeated with a faint smirk tugging at his lips. His eyes sheened with something unreadable as he watched me with that same detached cruelty. “I warned you, didn’t I? Don’t come back. Not unless you’re prepared to lose everything again.”
Lo…lose everything? I had nothing! Except Tito. I didn't want to lose him too.
“Tito…” I didn't think my face would embody my desperation because just a moment, the tiniest flicker of something passed across his face. Something. It was quick, barely there, but I saw it. Something close to guilt. Regret, perhaps. It was gone before I could even fully register it, replaced by the cold, unfeeling expression he always wore.
But I had seen it. I knew it was there.
And that, somehow, was worse than anything else he had done. I swallowed when I noticed Malakai’s hand still hovered mere inches from my cheek, the lingering heat of his touch leaving my skin itching where it had grazed moments ago. His eyes coruscated with an unsettling darkness as he took a deliberate step back, folding his arms across his chest in that way he did whenever he was ready to lecture. The amusement in his face had vanished, replaced by an expression so cold, so emotionless, it made my stomach turn. The silence in the room stretched like a fragile thread holding both our emotions together.
"I am nothing like the wolf you once knew," he began to explain in a deliberately low and measured voice, as though reminding himself of the barriers he had constructed around me. "That version of me... the version you cling to? He’s gone, Wilhelmina.”
“He remembers my name.” I scoffed, feeling stupid for noticing that little detail.
“…Long dead. Nothing more, nothing less." His eyes bore into mine, daring me to argue, but I couldn’t. Not because I didn’t want to, but because the words died in my throat before I could release them.
"I’ve made it clear, haven’t I?" His voice was sharper now, cutting through the room like a blade. "You seem to be reading far too much into this unfortunate arrangement of ours. Perhaps you’re forgetting your place." He tilted his head slightly, the condension in his tone thickening with every syllable. "You’re a slave, Mina. That’s what you are. Do not delude yourself into thinking that you’re anything more than a means to an end. This thing between us…" He waved a hand dismissively, as if the mere mention of it disgusted him. "It’s nothing. It has never been anything, and it never will be. I’ve never loved you. I never will."
All I could ask myself was when he became this talkative as each word struck me like a lash, burning deeper than any physical wound could. He said it with such finality, such certainty, that for a moment I almost believed him. Almost. But then I remembered the flicker of that 'something’ I had seen in his eyes moments earlier. That fleeting glimpse of guilt, of hesitation. Was that what terrified him? That somewhere, buried beneath the cruelty and the coldness, there was something real?
I blinked rapidly, trying to force back the tears that were already welling in my eyes. His triumph wasn't worth my tears, but the truth was that his words had struck a nerve. I had always known, deep down, that this was nothing more than survival. That the affection I had sometimes glimpsed in his touch, in his gaze, was an illusion I had created to comfort myself in the hell that was now my life.
Still, hearing it laid bare in such brutal terms made something inside me crack.
“I—” My voice caught, and I swallowed hard, trying again. “I never asked you to love me.”
“Good,” he snapped, his tone as icy as ever. “Because it would be pointless. You are nothing but a slave to me. A tool to be used when I see fit. Remember that, Wilhelmina. Whatever you think you might feel—it’s irrelevant.”
He was repeating it. My brain failed to see it. Just the fact that he was repeating it to reassure himself?
The bile rose in my throat, and I had to fight to keep from gagging. The room suddenly felt stifling, the air thick with the weight of his words. How had it come to this? How had I allowed myself to be reduced to... My hand clenched at the fabric of Stacy's gown, fingers curling into the fragile material as though I could somehow hold onto the last shreds of my dignity.
Stacy would go berserk if I destroyed her fancy gown. I glanced down, and his eyes followed my gaze down to my clenched fist, then back to my face. “Look at you,” he sneered. “You can’t even hide it, can you? That pathetic hope. Quite unfortunate you think you can change something by coming here, don’t you? That you have some sort of power over me. You’re wrong, Mina. So very wrong. You are nothing.”
I didn't even know this bloody bastard was going to be here. I should have done everything I could. Reject him, go back to the pit... lick pompeo's feet... any f*****g thing!
Nothing. The word echoed in my mind—a hollow, empty sound that made me want to scream. He was stripping me down, layer by layer, until there was nothing left but the raw, ugly truth I had been avoiding for so long.
"I know what you’re thinking," he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper, as though sharing some dark secret that could set me free. "That I’m cruel, that I enjoy this. Maybe I do. But let’s be clear—you deserve this. You deserve every moment of it. You’ve made your choices, and now you must live with the consequences of being a halfling."
I never asked for any of this. The tears burned behind my eyes again, and this time I couldn’t stop them. One slid down my cheek, warm and unwanted. I wiped it away furiously, refusing to let him see me weak. But it was too late. He had already seen. He always did.
“Ah, there it is,” he murmured, stepping closer again, his voice almost gentle now, as though mocking me with his sudden tenderness. His hand reached out, cupping my chin, forcing me to look up at him. “That’s what I wanted to see. The real you. Helpless. Broken.”
Was I imagining his softer voice now? This was sick.
I clenched my teeth, swallowing the sob that threatened to choke me. I wouldn’t give him satisfaction. Not this time. But my body, traitorous as it was, betrayed me. I could feel the heat rising within me—the strange, horrifying reaction that I had no control over. My skin itched where his hand touched, and I hated myself for it. I hated the way my body responded to him, even when my mind screamed in denial.
But I had no choice. Not anymore. Not if I wanted to avoid the Pit. The thought of that place—the darkness, the cold, the screams—was enough to push me past my loathing. I had to perform. I had to play my part or risk something far worse.
“Good girl,” he whispered, his breath warm against my ear as he leaned in, murmuring huskily, full of dark promise. “Now, remember your place. Wilhelmina. And as long as you do, you’ll do exactly as I say.”
I closed my eyes, willing the tears to stop, willing my body to stop reacting to him. But it was too late. The fragile threads that had held me together were fraying, and I could feel myself slipping, losing control.
"I hate you," I whispered, my voice trembling despite my best efforts.
He laughed, a low, mocking sound that sent a caustic shiver down my spine. "Oh, I know you do. But that doesn’t matter, does it? Because no matter how much you hate me, you’ll always come back. You’ll always obey. Because deep down, you know that you have no other choice."
I stared at him, my heart pounding in my chest, my body trembling with the effort of holding myself together. I wanted to scream, to rage, to claw at him until there was nothing left. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I could barely graze him with my dagger, I thought, glancing pitifully at the dagger under the couch…
Because he was right.
I had no choice.
And that, more than anything, made me sick to my core.
#
Malakai
What the hell was I doing?
I should’ve let her go. Sent her back to that bloody pit where she belonged. One look at her pitiful face, and I was losing the bloody plot. I’d gone soft for one damn second, and now I was standing here like a fool, with her eyes cutting right through me. Dreamy, sodding eyes that always seemed to make me do things I didn't bloody want to do.
“Get a grip," Malakai. She’s a slave. Just a slave.
I’d reminded myself of that enough times. Hell, I practically spat it at her moments ago. But something in me—some stupid, weak part—kept hesitating. Kept wanting to… protect her. It made no sense. “Protect her”? Who the f**k was I turning into?
I clenched my jaw, my fists curling at my sides as I stared at her, willing myself to feel nothing. Not pity, not anger, not... whatever the hell else this was. She was nothing. She was nothing.
But then she raised her head, those bloody, wide, miserable eyes glistening like she was about to say something.
- Writer
