Page 31 of Shy Girl

They loop endlessly, settling deeper each time, carving out a hollow I don’t know how to fill.

FIFTEEN

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I wake tothe light, harsh and bright, carving itself into the room. My body is stiff, aching in places I didn’t know could ache. For a moment, I am unmoored, the soft fog of sleep a balm against recognition. But then the collar shifts, a slight pressure at my throat, and reality snaps back into place. The cage, the leash, Nathan’s voice like a blade slipping between my ribs:I think I’ll keep you.

The hours are long gone, the ones we agreed on. I glance toward the wall where the clock used to hang, but it’s gone. He’s removed it. Of course he has. The absence of it feels dark, like a hand pressed over my eyes. Still, I’ve been tracking time in other ways: the rhythm of his steps, the stretch of light shifting through the window, the groan of the house as it wakes. It is well into the afternoon now. I’m sure of it.

I tell myself it’s nothing, that it’s just him testing me. Pushing my limits. A first-day trial to see if I’m worth the effort. This is what I repeat, over and over, like a mantra. This is fine. This is normal. He’s testing me.

MIA BALLARD108

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But my body protests, each movement stiff and reluctant, my muscles shrieking against the cold press of metal bars. I shift, curling tighter, grounding myself in the steady rhythm of my breath: in for four, hold for four, out for four. My head swims with fragments of his words, each one heavier than the last.

I think I’ll keep you.

He couldn’t mean forever. Forever is absurd. This is an agreed upon arrangement. A thing with boundaries and terms. Eight hours, payment at the end of the week. That was the deal.

But the words don’t leave me. They loop in my mind, cutting into my certainty, carving doubt into the soft places I’d hoped to protect.

I want to call out, to ask if my time is up, but my voice isn’t mine to use. The rules are clear, and I know better than to break them. Instead, I press my palms to the floor, cold and hard beneath me, and try not to think about how the bars feel like an extension of my skin.

The footsteps come at last, faint at first, then louder. Relief blooms sharp and uneasy. I uncurl, just enough to peer through the bars, my heart caught in the tension between dread and hope.

The door creaks open, and there he is, his expression calm, unreadable. He stands there for a moment, watching me like he’s considering something I can’t see. “Good afternoon,” he says, his voice smooth and even.

I nod. My throat tightens against the words I want to spill, the questions clawing their way to the surface.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks, his tone so casual it feels like a joke.

I nod again, though my dreams were anything but restful. They were tangled things, filled with commands that stuck to me like second skin.

SHY GIRL109

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He crouches, his eyes meeting mine, sharp and quiet. “Let’s see how much you’ve learned,” he says.

The commands come, one by one, and I obey without hesitation. My body moves before my mind can register, each motion smooth from repetition.Sit. Beg. Stay.The words cut through the air, and I mold myself to fit them. When he nods in approval, I feel the weight of his gaze linger, heavy as the collar at my throat.

I am hungry now, my stomach a raw ache, the sound breaking free in a low growl that startles us both. Nathan’s eyes flick toward me, sharp with amusement. I lower my gaze instinctively, a flush creeping up my neck like shame. I want to go home. To oatmeal, blueberries in a perfect circle, something real and mine.

Instead, I bark. The sound is sharp, ripping through the silence, and I feel it leave me like a piece of myself.

Nathan tilts his head, his smile faint and cutting. “What is it, girl?” he asks, his voice playful, mocking, and I feel the edges of myself fray.

I raise a hand, point toward my mouth—a small rebellion, a plea.

His smile disappears, replaced by something cold and dangerous. “Dogs don’t point,” he says, his tone flat, edged with warning.

My hand falls instantly, my body folding into itself, eyes wide and pleading.This isn’t funny anymore.

He studies me, his gaze heavy, the air thick enough to choke on. Then, like a crack in glass, his expression softens into a smile. It’s casual, almost warm, but it doesn’t ease the tensioncoiled in my chest. “I get it,” he says lightly, as if we’re sharing some unspoken understanding. “You’re hungry.”

He crouches to my level, his knees cracking faintly, and pets me, his hand dragging over my head and down my back. The touch is dehumanizing in its softness. My body stays rigid beneath his hand, every nerve electric, but I don’t flinch.

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