**Noah’s POV**

I stared into his eyes, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might explode. His arms were still around me, strong and unyielding, keeping me from hitting the bathroom floor after I slipped. For a second, everything stopped—just me and him, our faces so close I could feel his breath on my skin. His eyes were dark, intense, like they could see every secret I’d ever hidden. Then, without a word, he let go, setting me on my feet. He turned and walked out, the bathroom door clicking shut behind him, leaving me alone.

I stood there, my legs shaky, my towel barely hanging on. What was that? That weird feeling in my chest was back, like something was pulling me toward him, even though he scared me half to death. My head was a mess—fear, anger, and something else I couldn’t name. I shook it off, my hands trembling as I tightened the towel around my waist. I turned on the shower, the hot water hissing as it hit the tiles. I peeled off my boxers, stepped in, and let the steam burn away the dirt and blood from last night. My bruises stung, my head throbbed from where my dad’s bottle had hit me, but the water helped. At least it was something normal in this nightmare.

I stayed under the spray longer than I needed, trying to make sense of everything. My dad sold me. That guy—thought he owned me. And that look in his eyes, like he hated me but couldn’t stop staring. I didn’t get it. I scrubbed my skin until it was raw, like I could wash away the fear, but it didn’t work. When I finally stepped out, wrapping the towel around me again, I felt just as lost.

The door opened, and that same guy with the scar who’d dragged me here—stood there. He didn’t say anything, just grabbed my arm and pulled me down a hallway. My bare feet slapped against the cold floor, and I winced, my body still aching from the chains and the beating. He pushed me into a new room, bigger than the last one, with a bed, a dresser, and a small window high on the wall. No chains, no torture tools, but it still felt like a prison. He left without a word, the door slamming shut.

I stood in the middle of the room, my heart racing. The place was big, but the dark walls made it feel like they were closing in. The bed was huge, with a thick black blanket, and the dresser looked expensive, but none of it mattered. I was trapped. I glanced at the door. It wasn’t locked. I could run. Get out of here, away from him and his cold eyes. My hands shook as I took a step toward the door, then another. I had to try.

I turned—and ran straight into a wall of muscle. My face hit a bare chest, and I stumbled back, my towel slipping. I looked up, and there he was, his eyes locked on mine, dark and dangerous. My breath caught, and I froze, my heart pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it.

“Going somewhere?” he asked, his voice low, like a growl. He stepped closer, and I backed up, my legs hitting the bed.

“I—I wasn’t—” I stammered, my words tripping over themselves. My face burned, and I clutched the towel, trying to cover myself. He kept coming, his boots heavy on the floor, until I had nowhere to go. I was trapped between him and the bed, his eyes pinning me in place.

I tried to speak, to say something, anything, but all that came out was a jumble of sounds. “I—I don’t—” My voice cracked, and I hated how weak I sounded. He was so close now, I could smell him—whiskey and something sharp, like danger. His hand shot out, and I flinched, squeezing my eyes shut, waiting for the hit. My dad hit me all the time; I knew what was coming.

But no pain came. I opened my eyes, and he was just standing there, staring at me. His eyes weren’t as cold now—there was something else, something softer, like he was fighting himself. It was gone in a second, but it was enough to make my stomach twist.

He turned away, walking over to the huge bed in the corner. He sat down, pulling off his shirt in one quick motion. I couldn’t look away, even though I wanted to. His muscles were tight, his skin marked with scars that looked like they had stories I’d never want to hear. He tossed the shirt aside and stood, walking back toward me. Our eyes locked, and that weird pull hit me again, stronger, like a rope tying me to him.

“You belong to me now,” he said, his voice hard, like it was a fact I couldn’t argue with. “There are rules in this house. You follow them, or you get punished. Got it?”

I swallowed, my throat dry. Fear twisted in my gut, but so did anger. He thought he could own me? Like I was nothing? “What are the rules?” I asked, my voice shaking but loud enough to hear.

He chuckled, a rough sound that made my skin prickle. “Rule one: you don’t run. Ever. I’ll find you, and you’ll regret it. Two: keep this room clean. Three: no talking back unless I ask you a question. Four: you can go back to school, but don’t even think about talking to anyone. Five: when I tell you to do something, you do it. No arguing.”

I stared at him, my fists clenching. Anger burned in my chest, hotter than ever. My whole life, people had pushed me around—my dad, those bullies, and now this guy. I wasn’t a dog. I wasn’t his. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to keep the anger down. But it was no use. I wanted to scream, to tell him to go to hell, but I knew I couldn’t. Not here. Not now.

He stepped closer, so close I could feel the heat off his body. His hand grabbed my chin, tilting my face up to meet his eyes. They were dark, intense, like they could burn right through me. “Do you understand?” he asked, his voice low, almost a growl.

Tears stung my eyes, and one slipped down my cheek. I hated him. I hated this place. I hated my dad for selling me. But I was trapped, and I knew it. My voice broke as I whispered, “Yes, I understand.”