POV Elisa
"You realize this counts as the walk of shame if you're doing it at dawn, right?" I tell myself, but honestly, shame requires the capacity to feel bad about your choices, and right now I'm too busy cataloging my victories.
Three times. I made Professor Victor Larsen come three times in his Swedish safety cage while his family ate pot roast without him. The man who preaches self-control spent four hours proving that control is just another word for delayed gratification.
My thighs ache with that specific burn that says I've been athletic in ways that would make my high school gym teacher weep with pride or horror.
The hickeys on my neck look like I got into a territorial dispute with a very passionate vampire who had strong opinions about academic integrity.
No marks anyone can see, Victor had said, right before he proceeded to turn my throat into a Jackson Pollock painting of burst capillaries.
The sunrise paints campus in shades of accusation, but I'm too high on the destruction of traditional power dynamics to care.
My hair still smells like leather seats and academic compromise. My underwear is in my purse because putting it back on seemed wrong.
"Hey there, looking for a ride?"
The van pulls up beside me like a cliché with tinted windows. White, naturally, because apparently criminals shop at the same depot.
"I'm good, thanks," I say, speeding up, but then the side door slides open and hands grab me before my post-orgasmic brain can process anything.
The bag goes over my head, and suddenly I'm living every true crime podcast I've ever hate-listened to at two AM.
"Kilian says hi," one of them says.
"Of course he does," I mumble through the bag.
"Shut up," another voice suggests.
"You know, for hired thugs, you're really lacking in creative dialogue," I spit. "Have you considered improv classes? Really help with the whole intimidation thing."
Someone's hand clamps down on my shoulder, not violent, just firm enough to suggest that my editorial services aren't currently required.
The drive feels like hours but is probably twenty minutes.
Every turn makes me want to vomit, which would really ruin the whole mysterious kidnapping vibe they've got going.
When we finally stop, they guide me out with the kind of professional courtesy usually reserved for helping elderly relatives into Ubers.
"Watch your head," one actually says, like we're entering a crime scene that values OSHA compliance.
The warehouse smells exactly how you'd expect—rust, motor oil, and the broken dreams of urban development.
They position me in what feels like a chair, and when they pull the bag off, I'm facing exactly who I expected.
Kilian sits across from me. Same expensive suit, same silver cufflinks, same expression of wounded entitlement that makes me want to punch things.
"You've been ignoring me, princess. That's rude."
"You had me kidnapped," I point out. "That's significantly ruder."
"I prefer to think of it as an invitation to reconnect." He stands, circling my chair. "You look tired. Are you sleeping enough?"
"Well, I wasn't sleeping at all last night, if that's what you're asking."
His eyes narrow.
"Studying, I suppose. That's what's changing you."
"Actually, I was—"
"It doesn't matter." He pulls up another chair, sitting close enough that I can smell his cologne. "We need to discuss us, Elisa."
"There is no us. There's you, refusing to accept that sometimes women leave, and me, wondering if I should have taken that self-defense class after all."
"You were perfect before," he continues like I haven't spoken. "You understood the natural order of things."
"The natural order where you owned me like a collectible?"
"The natural order where men protect and women appreciate that protection." He leans back, studying me like I'm a painting that got damaged in shipping. "But then you insisted on this education nonsense. Suddenly you're reading books that give you… ideas. They're ruining you."
"Or maybe they're showing me I was already ruined by letting you convince me I needed saving."
"You did need saving. That trailer park, your mother's rotating cast of boyfriends, the trajectory toward inevitable poverty." His voice goes soft, which is somehow worse than when he yells. "I gave you everything. Culture, refinement, a future that didn't involve food stamps."
"You gave me a cage with Italian marble countertops."
"And you gave me your innocence. Right on those same countertops, if I recall correctly." He smiles at the memory, and my skin tries to crawl off my body and file a restraining order. "We were beautiful together, Elisa."
"We were a disaster. You were forty-four, and I was seventeen with daddy issues and a savings account that couldn't cover a tank of gas."
"Age is just a number when souls connect."
"That's literally what pervs say, Kilian."
He stands abruptly, the chair scraping against concrete. "I never touched you before you were legal."
"Wow, what a hero. You waited two whole months. Someone get this man a Nobel Prize in basic human decency."
"You're angry. I understand. College has filled your head with feminist propaganda and victimhood narratives." He starts pacing. "But deep down, you know the truth. You know you felt safe with me."
"I felt owned."
"Did you? Because from what I've seen, you're not even dating anyone. You're alone, struggling with your classes, barely keeping your scholarship." He stops pacing, fixing me with that look that used to make me feel special but now just makes me nauseous. "You're drowning without me, princess."
"I'm learning to swim."
"You're sinking. And you're too proud to admit you need rescue." He crouches in front of me, his hands on my knees, and I resist the urge to kick him in his professionally whitened teeth. "But I'm patient. I'll wait for you to see reason."
"How long exactly? Because I've got a lot of coursework this semester."
"Don't be flippant. It doesn't suit you." He stands, straightening his jacket. "I still have those photos, Elisa. One click, and they're everywhere. Your precious professors, your new friends, that blonde girl you're always with—they'll all see exactly who you really are."
"Someone who made the mistake of trusting the wrong person with intimate moments?"
"Someone who needs a firm hand." He checks his watch—Rolex, of course. "I could have taken you by force, you know. Tonight, last month, any time I wanted. But I have principles. I believe in the natural submission that comes from recognizing masculine authority."
"Your principles are the kind they study in abnormal psych textbooks."
"Perhaps." He signals to the thugs. "But at least they're consistent. Think about my offer. Come back to me willingly, and all of this disappears. You can even finish your little degree if it makes you happy. I'll pay for everything."
"And in return?"
"In return, you remember what we could have again." He moves toward the exit, then pauses. "You have forty-eight hours to decide."
"Decide what?"
"Whether you want to be saved or destroyed." His eyes drop to my neck, and his expression darkens. "And Elisa? Those marks on your throat... whoever you're letting touch you, they're not good enough for you."
Oh, if you knew the truth—that it's your carefully chosen professor, the one you sent my photos to as punishment—the irony might actually kill you.
"That's none of your—"
"Everything about you is my business, princess. I invested too much in you to let some fumbling boy ruin my work."
He heads for the door, and his thugs move to follow.
"Actually," I say, my voice echoing off the metal walls, "I don't need forty-eight hours."