Chapter Text
Since Adam had started trying to eat again (trying to live again) he was beginning to notice just how strange everything around him truly was.
He opened his eyes to pale light brushing across the sheets. Sheets. Real ones. Clean. The fabric smelled like lavender and something warm he couldn’t name. A bed. He was in a bed.
His first instinct was to flinch. Brace for the slap. The voice. The yank of a collar.
Nothing came.
Just quiet.
His breath caught—shallow, sharp. Something felt wrong. No… not wrong. But unfamiliar. And that might as well have been the same.
Then he remembered.
He was Mistress Bianca’s now.
There was a tray beside him. Toast again. Tea. Slices of apple arranged in a soft, curved line. She’d even peeled them.
He stared at the food like it might snap its teeth at him.
Why?
Why would she do that?
He sat up slowly, stiff and cautious. The blanket fell into his lap. The room was empty. No locks on the door. No chains. No cold floor beneath him.
This had to be a trick.
He’d seen kindness before—performative kindness. A smile before the punishment. A hand on the shoulder before being dragged back down. False warmth to keep him pliant. Hope used like a leash.
Bianca hadn’t hit him.
Hadn’t threatened him.
Hadn’t even raised her voice.
That didn’t make him feel safe.
It made him feel off-balance.
He remembered how she’d sat beside him the day before, not speaking. Not touching, unless he let her. Her voice had stayed soft when his breath was breaking apart. And then she’d said, ' I’m proud of you, ' like it meant something.
Like he meant something.
So… why him?
He stared at the untouched plate, his fingers curling tightly around the blanket like it might anchor him.
Why had she chosen him?
There were others. Better ones. Stronger. Fewer scars. Fewer cracks.
He knew what he looked like, what he was.
A worn-down thing. Quiet. Cautious. Trained into stillness.
A mess no one wanted to clean up.
He wasn’t graceful. Wasn’t clever. Didn’t wait.
He flinched too easily. Slept too little. Fell apart too fast. And now he didn't eat, speak and was almost dead inside.
So why had she looked at him and said yes?
Was it pity? Curiosity? Some need to fix what was already ruined?
Or was it something worse? A long game? A soft mask worn over the same cruelty?
Was she just waiting until he trusted her enough to fall?
He couldn’t believe she wanted him. Not really.
Not when she could’ve chosen someone untouched. Someone whole. Someone who didn’t freeze when kindness entered the room like it was something dangerous.
She let him sleep in real bed.
Let him eat real food.
Let him really breathe.
No leash. No threat.
Just steady hands and gentle voice.
It terrified him.
She could’ve hurt him.
She still might.
That thought never left him, not even now. Sitting in the stillness of her room with warm food at his side and a blanket still tucked around his legs.
It was her right.
She owned him. That truth was carved into the deepest parts of him. Bones that remembered the whip, nerves that twitched at the sound of keys, breath that stuttered when footsteps grew too close.
She had the right to punish. To strike. To kill, if she wanted.
And yet… she hadn’t.
Not once.
Not even when he froze. Not when he couldn’t speak. Not when he failed to obey something as simple as eat.
She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t make him beg. Didn’t remind him what he was.
She just stayed.
Quiet. Present. Kind.
She even pleaded.
And that was worse.
Because he didn’t know how to survive kindness.
Pain was simple. Pain made sense. You knew where you stood when you were on your knees.
But this?
This waiting silence?
This unbearable mercy?
It made his skin crawl with something colder than fear — doubt.
Why hadn’t she hurt him?
Was she waiting until he trusted her more?
Was this a performance? A long, careful lie?
Trying to make him forget who he was before breaking him in a way that would really last?
Or was it something else?
Did she see something in him?
And if she did… what?
He wasn’t good. Wasn’t strong. Wasn’t beautiful or obedient or even functional. He was just a shell that had learned to sit still. A cracked thing. A body that knew how to survive but not how to live.
So why was he still breathing?
Why was he still safe?
Either she was real…
Or she was just better at hiding the trap.
And if she was real, if this was truly care, truly choice, then he had no idea what to do with that.
He didn’t know how to be chosen, if it was not Evan.
Not without it costing him something.
His chest ached in a way that felt almost worse than fear.
He reached for the toast, then stopped. Hand hovering.
He could still back away. Pretend he hadn’t thought about it. Pretend he hadn’t wanted to believe her.
But he had.
And that’s what scared him most.
Because what if she was different?
And what if she wasn’t, and he’d just let himself fall for the lie?
He looked at the apple slices.
She’d cut away the bruises.
None of his Mistresses would have ever do that before.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t eat.
He just sat there, still and trembling, feeling everything and nothing all at once.
If he let this in, if he let her in, and it turned out to be a trick…
He didn’t know if he’d survive it.
But if it wasn’t-
God, if it wasn’t-
Then maybe… he wasn’t just some old plaything meant to be broken.
Maybe he was someone still worth keeping.