Page 44 of Shy Girl

Company.The word feels foreign here, a sharp contrast to the near silence that’s ruled this house for almost four years. My mind stumbles over it, twisting it into shapes I don’t want to name. Someone else. A replacement. Someone better, someone newer.

The spiral starts, clawing its way through me. What if tonight is my last night in the Pink Room? What if he’s done with me, tired

of the version of me that’s become too fragile, too worn? My chest tightens, and the panic rises fast, pressing against my ribs, but I swallow it down. I force my face into blank obedience. Don’t let him see it. Don’t let him know.

“Woof,” I murmur, barely audible, and lower myself to the bowl.

The chicken is tough, dry against my teeth, but it’s warm, and it’s not the metallic mush of dog food. That’s enough. I chew quickly, mechanically, swallowing it down without letting myself think. Protein keeps me standing. The scraps of human food he gives me are rare, erratic, but they’ve kept me from slipping too far, from crumbling completely. My ribs still press against my skin, a sharp reminder of what I’ve lost, but I’m satiated. For now.

I glance up as I eat, watching him. His movements are hurried like his guest might arrive any minute, wiping the counter in big, circular motions, his focus somewhere far from this room. The questions press at my lips, begging to be spoken—Who’s coming? What do they mean to you? What will happen to me?—but they stay locked behind my teeth.

The last time I asked a question, it cost me three days of bruises and silence. That was three years ago. I asked what happened to Cupcake.

When I finish, he turns to me, nodding once, a gesture so slight it feels like an afterthought. “Follow,” he says, his voice clipped, and I crawl after him, my knees scraping against the hardwood, the air between us taut with unspoken weight.

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The Pink Room smells of cleaning spray, the kind he uses when he’s too drunk or too tired to wash me. The sweetness clings to the air, sharp and artificial, failing to mask the deeper rot underneath. He gestures to the bed, and I climb up without hesitation, spreading my legs before I can stop myself, my body moving faster than my mind.

He chuckles softly, a sound that’s almost kind, almost cruel. “Not that, Shy Girl,” he says, his voice coaxing as he presses my legs closed, his touch light but firm. “Not right now.”

The handcuffs are next, their metal glinting faintly. They bite cold against my wrists as he snaps them on, securing them to the headboard with a decisive click. The ball gag follows. “Open,” he says, and I obey, my jaw trembling as the rubber slides in, its chemical taste bitter and invasive, spreading like rust across my tongue.

“Shh,” he murmurs, brushing his hand against my cheek in a gesture that pretends tenderness but reeks of control. He lingers there, his eyes heavy on mine, his expression unreadable, before flicking off the light. The room plunges into darkness, the door clicking shut behind him, the deadbolt sliding into place like a blade drawn clean.

I lie still; my breaths shallow, uneven through my nose. The gag forces me into small, measured inhales, each one tighteningthe ache in my chest. The cuffs dig into my wrists, the edges biting into my skin with each slight movement. My body feels like a cage within a cage, trapped in itself, every sensation amplified—the sting, the pull, the exhaustion crawling up my spine.

Who is it? What does this mean for me?

The questions churn, circling like vultures. The silence presses against me, thick and suffocating, broken only by the faint murmur of his voice on the phone, muffled and indistinct. I strain to hear

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more, to find an answer in the fragments of sound, but nothing comes.

I focus on the slow rhythm of my breath. In. Out. In. Out. It’s the only thing I have, the only thing I can control. The questions don’t stop, though. They chip away at me, each one sharper than the last, each one carving away another piece. Time folds in on itself, stretching and collapsing, and the room shrinks, the silence heavy and unyielding.

I lie there, trapped in the waiting, in the dark, in the endless, suffocating ache of not knowing.

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About an hourlater, I hear it: the front door opening and the sound of a woman’s laughter, light and melodic, slicing through the quiet of the house like a razor. My chest tightens, and my ears strain, every muscle in my body tensed, waiting. Her heels click sharply against the floor, a crisp rhythm that makes my stomach turn.

Their voices drift faintly through the walls, indistinct but alive. Hers is warm, bright with amusement, while his is steady, deeper. Laughter spills between them, hers more frequent, like he’s coaxing something out of her.

The questions come fast, cutting through me like splinters.Has he told her yet? Does she know what he likes? Has he shown her the cage?

I see it in my head before I can stop it—Nathan leading her down the hall, his hand on the small of her back, the door to the study opening. Her face when she sees it, the way her expression would shift, the dawning horror. His grin, sharp and cruel, as he waits for her to understand.

I try to shut it out, to focus, to hear them more clearly, but their voices stay muffled, their laughter distant and veiled by the walls.

Time stretches thin, and I lie there, the cuffs biting into my wrists, the gag heavy in my mouth, my jaw aching with the weight of it. My body aches, stiff and sore from the stillness, but I don’t move. I just listen, clinging to the rhythm of their voices, trying to brace myself for what’s coming.

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