Red and blue lights flashed against the windows, bathing the room in siren pulses. Vincent didn’t move. Not when the front door crashed open, not when boots thundered down the hall, not when two uniformed officers stormed into the red room.
He stayed seated on the floor, back straight, arms around me like I was the only thing tethering him to the earth. His hands were still slick with blood.
Julian’s.
Mine shook as they fisted the front of Vincent’s shirt, refusing to let go.
I wasn’t cuffed anymore. He’d unlocked me the second I whispered his name the third time. But I hadn’t moved. Couldn’t.
One of the officers blinked at the restraints still dangling from the ceiling. “Jesus Christ.”
The paramedics were slower. They murmured into radios, gently lifted Julian from the floor where he groaned incoherently. His face was a mess of swelling and red.
Good. I hoped it throbbed. I hoped it reminded him every minute what happened when you touched someone who wasn’t yours.
Still, they looked at me too long. The marks on my wrists. The blindfold at my feet. The spreader bar still locked to the wall. One of them opened his mouth. I glared hard enough to make him stop.
They didn’t take Vincent in cuffs.
He stood when they told him to. Walked down the hallway like a soldier falling into line. I followed.
The questioning started immediately.
“What happened tonight?”
“Why were you restrained?”
“Are you hurt?”
“Are you safe?”
My voice didn’t tremble. “He saved me.”
A detective with soft hands and skeptical eyes pulled me aside after the ambulance disappeared.
“Tell me the truth,” he said gently. “You don’t have to protect him.”
I stared back. “I’m not.”
He cleared his throat. “Do you engage in these restraints… willingly?”
“Yes.”
“Fully?”
I leaned in. “I begged for everything he gave me.”
His pen stopped mid-stroke. “I just need to confirm that—”
“You need to confirm what you’re already trying to disprove,” I cut in, voice cool. “That I’m not a victim.”
The rest of the interview blurred. Details. Names. Sequence of events. How long I’d been with Vincent. What kind of relationship we had. Had I ever felt unsafe. Had he ever forced me. Had he ever… hurt me?
I smiled at that one. “Only when I asked him to.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
But it didn’t matter.
Julian was arrested.
Breaking and entering. Assault with intent. Violation of a court order I didn’t even know had been filed.
But he didn’t go quietly.
He claimed I’d been manipulated. Said I was brainwashed. Said Vincent kept me in isolation. Said he had proof—text messages, surveillance footage from campus. Even a photo from months ago where I stood outside Vincent’s SUV, looking up at him with parted lips and cuff bruises on my wrists.
They took it seriously. The detective came back the next morning.
“We’ll need to talk again,” he said. “There are allegations now. Against him.”
My stomach turned.
Cleo called. I didn’t pick up.
Vincent stayed on the edge of the bed, shirtless, blood washed away but jaw tight. “You should go,” he said eventually, voice like sandpaper. “Back to school. Away from this.”
I stared at him. “Is that an order?”
He didn’t answer.
I walked to him. Slow. Deliberate. My hand reached for his, rested over his knuckles.
“I’m not scared of them.”
He looked up, finally. “You should be.”
“They don’t own me.”
“Neither do I,” he said, bitter. “Not anymore.”
I bent, pressed my forehead to his. “Yes. You do.”
I kissed his mouth, slow and soft. I wouldn’t lose him. Not after everything we’d bled to become.