Page 33 of Shy Girl

Pain.

It’s sudden and blinding, a fist slamming into my stomach, and my body folds in on itself like paper crumpling under a heavy hand. Air flees my lungs, leaving me gasping, clutching at my abdomen as the room swims in and out of focus.

I blink through the haze and see him, standing over me, fury carved into the lines of his face. In his hand, something smalland black. It takes a moment for my brain to connect the dots, but then

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the prongs glint under the light, and fear floods every corner of my body.

The taser crackles before I feel it, the electricity tearing through me, locking my muscles in a violent spasm. I scream, raw and guttural, the sound tearing through the room. My body shakes uncontrollably, the aftershock leaving me limp and gasping on the floor.

“Speak again, I dare you!” he snarls, his voice a jagged edge cutting through my disoriented thoughts.

I try to form words, anything to pacify him, but my throat tightens. No sound comes, just the desperate heaving of my breath. His hand twists into my hair, yanking me upright, and I stumble, knees scraping the floor as he drags me toward the cage. The sting from the taser lingers, radiating through my body in sharp, pulsating bursts.

Before I can resist, he shoves me inside. My body crumples awkwardly against the cold metal bars, the cage a fist closing around me. The door slams shut, the lock clicking with brutal finality.

Tears stream down my face as I curl into myself, the sobs coming in ragged, broken waves. My hands tremble as they press against the cage’s unforgiving floor. The collar around my neck feels tighter, heavier, like it’s pulling me under.

Nathan stands above me, the taser still in his hand, his chest rising and falling with sharp, measured breaths. His eyes bore into mine, unreadable but searing. “You don’t get to decide when this ends,” he says, his voice cold and precise, every word a shard of glass. “I do.”

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I shrink away, my body folding tighter, but his gaze doesn’t relent. The room seems to close in, the air thick and stifling, the bars pressing into my skin like a brand.

He leans down, his face inches from mine, his voice soft but terrifying in its calm. “You’re going to learn the rules,” he says, the words curling around me like smoke. “And you’re going to learn fast.”

I nod instinctively, the motion automatic, a reflex born of fear. My mind races, spinning with questions that lead nowhere. How did this happen? What do I do now?

Nathan straightens, his grip on the taser firm, and steps back. The sound of his footsteps fades as he leaves the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

I sit in the cage, my tears falling freely, my body trembling from the pain, the fear, the weight of it all. I tell myself this isn’t real, that it can’t be real, but the cold bite of the metal bars and the lingering ache in my abdomen tell me otherwise.

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The next morning,I jolt awake to the sound of banging—sharp, metallic, rhythmic. It slices through the haze of hunger and exhaustion, vibrating through the floor and into my spine. My body screams in protest as I shift, every joint stiff from a night curled up in the cage. For a moment, I think the noise is a dream, something dredged up from the same twisted corner of my brain that invents reasons to stay here. But then it comes again, louder this time. Hammering.

I hear footsteps, heavy and purposeful, moving closer. My heart stumbles into a faster rhythm, and I brace myself, pressing my body into the bars like they might open if I push hard enough. The door creaks, the sound slicing through the quiet, and I curl into myself instinctively, expecting the worst.

But I couldn’t have expected this.

Nathan steps into the room, his smile stretched thin, sharp at the edges. His eyes glint with something bright and unnerving, like he’s savoring a joke only he knows. His presence fills the space, sucking

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the air out of it, and for a moment, I can’t see anything else. Then she crawls in behind him.

It all happens in slow motion, the first thing I notice is the leash, taut in his hand, the loop wrapped casually around his wrist like an afterthought. The second is her—the way she moves, low and fluid, her body arched in a way that’s both unnatural and practiced. Her limbs bend like she was made for this, like she’s been doing it forever.

She’s gaunt, her frame painfully thin, her ribs casting shadows across her pale skin. Bruises bloom along her arms and legs, some fresh, others fading into yellows and greens, like they’ve been layered over time. Her blonde hair is tied into neat pigtails that feel cruel, too childish for the hollow-eyed woman beneath them. She’s wearing a light blue babydoll dress that clings to her like a second skin, the fabric absurdly frilly, like she’s been dressed up as someone else’s idea of innocence.

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