Page 32 of Shy Girl

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“Don’t worry, girl,” he says, his smile curving wider, something gleaming beneath the surface. “I’ve got just the thing for you.”

He stands, the leash clipping onto my collar with a familiar metallic click, and the sound lodges in my stomach like a stone. “Come,” he says, and I follow. My hands and knees drag across the floor, the hard surface scraping at my skin, my muscles burning from hours of this. Hunger twists sharp in my belly, a hollow ache that makes the world blur at the edges. I focus on the rhythm of crawling, a quiet mantra: left, right, left, right.

The kitchen is bright and clinical, the air sterile and sharp. He stops in the center of the room and points to a spot on the floor. “Stay,” he commands, his voice low and firm, the word pinning me in place.

I sink back onto my heels, watching him move. He hums softly, almost cheerfully, as he busies himself at the counter. His movements are light, unhurried, like he’s enjoying some private joke. I track him, my eyes following the way his hands pull out a metal dog bowl, the scrape of it against the counter making me wince.

The sounds are vague but visceral—clinking metal, the wet smack of something sliding out of a can. It’s enough to make my stomach churn, the hunger warping into nausea.

He sets the bowl down in front of me, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Here you go, girl,” he says, stepping back like he’s waiting for applause.

I hesitate, leaning forward just enough for the smell to hit me. It’s sour, rancid, a sharp slap of canned dog food. My stomach lurches, and instinct takes over. I jerk back, nearly knocking the bowl over. “Oh god!” The words rip out of me, raw and unguarded, before I can stop them.

The air shifts instantly. Nathan’s smile vanishes, replaced by something colder, sharper. He steps closer, his eyes narrowing.

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“What did you just say?” His voice is quiet, but the edge in it cuts clean through me.

My breath catches, my heart pounding as I freeze under his gaze. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, and I drop my eyes to the floor. My fists clench against the tile, nails digging into my palms.

His voice slices through the tension. “Now you’ll have to be punished.” The words settle in the air like lead, heavy and inescapable. He snatches the bowl from the floor. “No food until tomorrow,” he says.That’s it.The thought rises, unbidden but steady.I’m done.

Pain shoots through my legs as I push myself upright, my knees trembling, my back stiff and unforgiving. But I stand tall.

He turns, his face a mask of fury, his movements slow as he closes the space between us. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asks, his voice low, crackling with warning.

I hold his gaze, my breath coming in shallow bursts, my chest tight with the force of it. “I’m done,” I say, the words trembling but firm. “I want to go home.”

For a moment, he doesn’t respond. His eyes stay locked on mine, searching, calculating. The silence presses in, wrapping itself around me like a noose. Then he sighs, the sound heavy with exasperation.

“Okay,” he says finally, the word soft, almost resigned.

The relief is immediate, rushing through me like a flood. My knees threaten to buckle under the weight of it. He steps back, his movements measured, his face unreadable.

“You’re free to go,” he says, his voice calm, even.

I nod, my body trembling, my hands curling at my sides as if bracing for something that doesn’t come. His words hang in the

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air, and I cling to them as I back away out of the kitchen. Each step backward is cautious, measured, my eyes glued to his. His silence clings to me, thick and unbearable, his gaze dissecting me. “I understand if you don’t want me anymore,” I say, my voice fragile, trembling under its own weight. “This... this is too much. I can’t do it.”

The words unravel as I back away, each one pulled taut by fear. His face doesn’t change. The intensity in his eyes doesn’t waver, and the stillness of him is louder than anything I can say. “I’m sorry this didn’t work out,” I add quickly, the apology tumbling from my lips like loose thread.

Still nothing. His silence is a living thing, filling the space between us as I turn, stiff and mechanical, toward the hallway. My feet quicken, and I count my next moves in my head:Clothes. Purse. Out.

His presence trails me, a shadow stitched to my heels. I don’t look back. I can’t. The air feels heavy, pressing against me as I reach the study and fumble for my clothes. My hands shake as I pull them on, the fabric sticking to my skin, every movement jagged with panic.

My eyes scan the room frantically, heart hammering as I search for my purse. “Hey, where’s my—” I start, the words bursting out before I can think.

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