Page 21 of Shy Girl

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understand, a path I can’t retrace. I count them anyway—right, left, left again—committing the route to memory, a lifeline I might need later.

Twenty minutes pass, and then we’re pulling into the driveway of a secluded house that doesn’t look real. It’s too big, too polished, its windows glowing softly against the darkening sky. I park behind him, my breath catching as I step out of the car.

“This way,” he says, his tone light, casual, like he’s not subjecting me to whatever this is. I follow him up the path, my heels clicking against the stone, the sound unnervingly loud in the silence.

Inside, the house is immaculate, every detail curated to within an inch of its life. Clean lines, muted tones, furniture that looks like it’s never been touched. It smells faintly of cedar and something sharper, like a strong cleaning solution. It doesn’t feel like a home. It feels like a set.

He leads me to a room at the back of the house, flicking on the light. The space is small, intimate. A study or an office, though the desk is too pristine, the bookshelves too perfectly arranged. There are two lounge chairs, black leather, their surfaces gleaming under the soft overhead light. He gestures for me to sit in the one by the window. I hesitate, my gaze drawn to the far corner of the room. That’s when I see the cage.

It is big, larger than any I’ve seen before, with thick metal bars painted a dull black. My eyes fixate on it immediately, and my mind starts cataloging the details: the latches on the door, the way it sits perfectly parallel to the wall, the faint sheen on the surface that suggests it’s been recently cleaned.

“Do you have a dog?” I ask. I don’t particularly like dogs—their unpredictability, the mess they bring. If we were to end upin a long-term arrangement, this is something I would need to adjust to.

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I make a mental note:Research dog breeds, behavioral traits, nearby dog parks. Find ways to tolerate them.

He smiles faintly, shaking his head. “No, no. I don’t have a dog.”

His answer should be comforting, but it isn’t. The absence of a dog doesn’t explain the cage, its size, its strange placement in the corner of an otherwise meticulously curated room. I force myself not to stare at it for too long, but my eyes keep drifting back, tracing the clean lines of its frame, the way it commands the space without being intrusive.

“Oh,” I say simply. I don’t ask any follow-up questions, though the urge to know—to understand—is nearly overwhelming. I make another mental note:Don’t press. Let it go.

But I can’t let it go, not entirely. The cage looms in the corner of my vision, a quiet enigma. I tell myself there must be a practical explanation. Storage, perhaps, or something left behind by a previous tenant. My mind begins constructing scenarios, each one more plausible than the last.

He watches me closely, his gaze steady but unreadable, as though he’s waiting for me to ask something more. But I don’t. Instead, I force a small smile and fold my hands neatly in front of me, fingers laced tightly together, as though holding them still will keep my thoughts from spiraling.

He sits across from me, his eyes fixed on mine, glinting faintly in the dim light of the room. The silence between us stretches, each second marked like the tick of a clock. I feel the weight of his gaze, steady and unblinking, and my hands curltightly in my lap, fingers pressing into my palms in rhythmic beats to ground myself.

Finally, he rises, his movements calm, calculated. He crosses the room with purpose, the sound of his shoes soft against the hardwood floor. My eyes follow him as he reaches for something hung up behind the door, something I cannot see at first. My

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breath catches as he turns, and for a moment, the edges of the object blur in the low light before coming into sharp focus.

A collar. Black leather, gleaming with silver studs.

He approaches me slowly, holding it in both hands as though it’s something precious, sacred. My pulse quickens, each beat overwhelming, as I try to process what I’m seeing.

“Stand up,” he says gently, his voice low and calm, the kind of tone one might use to soothe a child or an animal.

I hesitate, my mind racing through possibilities, none of them clear. But my body responds before my brain can catch up, and I rise to my feet. The chair scrapes softly against the floor, and I flinch at the sound.

He steps closer, and I can feel the heat of his presence. He moves behind me, his hand brushing against my hair as he gently pulls it to one side. The action is intimate, and my breath catches in my throat. I hear the faint click of the clasp as he secures the collar around my neck. It’s snug but not tight, resting against my skin like an unfamiliar weight.

He steps back in front of me. His eyes are low now, his gaze heavy. I recognize the look immediately, though I have little experience with men like him. It’s primal, hungry, and unmistakable. Every woman knows that look.

“You look amazing with that on,” he says in a voice that’s barely above a whisper, deep and smooth like a blade slicing through the air.

My hand rises automatically, fingers brushing against the leather. It’s cool to the touch. “What—what is this?” I ask, my voice unsteady, almost inaudible.

He stares at me, the faint glimmer of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. But his expression shifts, darkening, his features hardening into something sharper, more sinister. My

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