The next morning, the mirror didn't recognize me.
It wasn't the face, I'd seen that pale, hollow look before. It was the mouth. The way my lips stayed parted, like I'd forgotten how to close them. Like something was still inside me, taking up space.
I didn't sleep. Not really. But my body felt rested, like it had been rewired instead of worn out. Every nerve felt tuned, electric, waiting.
There was no sign James had come. No proof. No new mark, no lingering scent. Just the memory of weight at the edge of the bed and the whisper still curling down my spine.
There's no going back after this.
I didn't want to.
That day at work passed like static. I couldn't remember the customers' faces. Couldn't remember what drinks I made. My body went through the motions, but my mind was somewhere else, locked in a room I hadn't seen yet, tied with ribbon.
I checked my phone between every order. Waiting. Hoping.
Nothing came.
Until the end of my shift.
A coworker waved me over before I clocked out, handed me a small black envelope. "Someone dropped this off for you. Said you'd know what to do with it."
No name. No return address.
Inside: a photo.
Another one of me, this time at work, pouring espresso. The shot was clean, well-lit, intimate. My hair half-fallen over one eye, lips parted in concentration, jaw tight. It looked like something from a gallery.
And beneath it, taped to the back, a red thread.
It ran from corner to corner, tight and deliberate. A perfect X across my image.
I didn't flinch.
Not even when I noticed the faint scent of the coat on the envelope. Not when I felt the heat bloom low in my belly.
Because this wasn't a warning.
It was a claim.
The thread stayed with me all night.
I didn't mean to keep it. But once it was in my pocket, I couldn't throw it away. I rubbed it between my fingers on the walk home, trying to understand what it meant. Not just the symbol, but the weight of it, what it meant for me.
I knew what it meant to be owned.
I knew what it meant to be touched without permission, to be made into a thing instead of a person.
But this felt different.
He hadn't taken anything.
He'd left something behind.
Something delicate. Something chosen.
That night, I didn't wait in bed. I didn't leave the door cracked. I lit a candle, sat cross-legged on the floor in my oversized shirt, and held the thread in my hand like a leash no one had attached yet.
I whispered into the dark.
"I'm not scared of you."
Nothing answered.
But the window shifted. The curtain fluttered.
And when I turned back toward the bedroom door, the coat was hanging in the closet again.
Same place. Same ribbon.
But now there was something tucked beneath the fold of the collar.
A note. Black ink, careful script.
Tie it to your wrist. If you're ready.
That was all.
No name. No signature.
Just the next rule in a game I hadn't agreed to play, but couldn't stop wanting to win.
I tied the thread on before sunrise.
Not because I was ready. But because I didn't want to be the kind of girl who hesitated anymore.
It didn't feel like a leash.
It felt like a pulse.
It throbbed softly around my wrist, snug and quiet, a reminder with every move I made. I kept expecting something to happen. A knock at the door. A phone call. A crash of glass. But nothing came.
I went to work as usual. No one noticed the red thread. Or if they did, they didn't ask. Maybe I wore it like jewelry. Maybe I wore it like armor.
That night, I found the apartment unlocked.
Just the front latch, just slightly off. I didn't panic. I didn't check for a weapon. I didn't even turn on the lights.
I walked in, and I let the door close behind me.
He was there.
Sitting in my chair. Legs wide, arms draped over the sides like he owned the air around him. No mask. No cloak of shadow. Just James, looking at me with hunger barely leashed.
And when he saw the thread on my wrist, his expression shifted.
Not with surprise. Not even satisfaction.
With possession.
"You wore it," he said.
My heart fluttered like wings in my throat.
"Yes."
He stood slowly. Walked over. His fingers brushed the thread like it was glass, like it would cut him if he touched it wrong.
Then he tilted my chin up.
"You don't get to untie it now."
I didn't want to.
Not even when he leaned in and whispered into my skin, "Strip."
The word fell between us like a match.
I moved.
Not like a puppet. Not like a victim. Like someone burning for permission.
I peeled the sweater over my head, let it fall without looking where. My bra was simple, cotton, pale pink. He smiled when he saw it, something sharp and quiet.
His hands didn't move. Only his eyes.
I wanted him to touch me. Desperately. But he didn't.
He only circled me once, slow, savoring. Then sat back in the chair.
"Sleep like this," he said. "Tonight. And tomorrow, if you're still wearing the thread, I'll show you what else it binds."
I didn't sleep.
Not because I was afraid, because I was lit up.
Every movement of the sheet against my bare skin was a friction I couldn't outrun. Every inhale brushed the places he hadn't touched. I felt like a wire, pulled taut between restraint and surrender.
James never left the room. He sat in the chair all night, watching. Not a word. Not a single command. But he didn't let me close my eyes for long. The moment I started to drift, his voice found me.
"Open."
Or, "Don't hide."
Once, it was just my name. Said softly, low enough it vibrated through my chest like music played against bone.
And somehow, that kept me awake better than fear ever had.
When the sun bled through the window, pale and unwelcome, I felt wrung out. My skin was sensitive. My mind was floating. But the thread stayed tied.
He stood finally, walked to the bed, and looked down at me like he was deciding something.
"You didn't untie it."
I didn't respond. I didn't need to.
His fingers slipped beneath the thread and lifted it from my wrist without breaking it.
He kissed the inside of my arm, right over the spot it had pressed into all night.
Then he tied it around my throat.